^ ;  >, 


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THE    BECKONING    OF    THE    WAND 


^^M 


THE   BECKONING    OF 
THE    WAND 

SKETCHES  OF  A  LESSER  KNOWN  IRELAND 
BY    ALICE    DEASE'^/ 


A  piteous  laod, 

Yet  ever  beckoniug  with  enchanted  wand." 

— R.  J.  Alexander. 


St.  Louis,  Mo. 

B.  HERDER,  17  SOUTH  BROADWAY 
LONDON  &  EDINBURGH 
SANDS  &  COMPANY 

1908 


BOSTON  G0LLE6HB  UBRARIT 

CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS, 


THE   BECKONING    OF    THE    WAND 


My  Dear  Joan, — You  ask  me  to  pity  you 
for  having  to  live  in  Ireland.  You  send  me  a 
little  brown-covered  book  called  **  Letters  from 
Ireland,"  and  you  say,  "  I  have  been  in  this 
country  for  two  years,  and  have  seen  with  my 
own  eyes  much — and  far  more  than  I  wish — 
of  what  is  described  in  this  book  with  such 
photographic  distinctness.  Although  the  author 
is  an  Irishman  he  abuses  his  country  as  it 
deserves,  but  then  his  eyes  have  been  opened 
by  living  in  America,  and  he,   at   least,  has  the 

I  A 

2163 


%  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

courage  of  his  convictions.  You  cannot  deny- 
that  his  pictures  of  idleness,  apathy,  and  dirt 
are  drawn  from  the  life,  then  pity  me  for  having 
to  live  among  such  people." 

Now  I  am  going  to  surprise  you.  I  am  going 
to  be  perfectly  frank  with  you,  and,  as  I  do  not 
feel  that  the  cap  fits  me,  I  am  going  to  ignore 
your  insinuation  that  the  writer  of  "Letters 
from  Ireland"  is  unique  in  having  the  courage 
of  his  convictions,  and — I  am  going  to  pity  you 
for  having  to  live  in  Ireland  ! 

My  dear,  I  do  pity  you  from  my  heart  for 
having  lived  for  two  years  in  a  country  where, 
in  spite  of  evils  I  do  not  attempt  to  deny, 
there  is  so  much,  so  very  much,  that  is  good 
and  beautiful,  yes,  and  deeply  spiritual,  to  see — 
and  not  to  have  seen  it. 

You  have  read  with  evident  attention  the 
pages  of  the  little  book  that  you  send  me  to- 
day, but,  Joan  dear,  do  you  not  think  that  a 
portrait  is  a  truer  likeness  than  a  photograph,  and 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  3 

would  you  not  rather  have  a  full  instead  of  a 
one-sided  representation  of  anything,  even  of  a 
nation  that  you  do  not  love  ?  You  already  have 
the  photograph.  All  the  evils  which  are  only 
too  painfully  apparent,  and  blot  the  surface  of 
Irish  life,  are  faithfully  portrayed  in  these  so- 
called  American  letters.  My  portrait  may  be 
ill- drawn,  the  descriptive  strokes  may  be  feeble 
and  blurred ;  yet  if  I  can  express  anything  of 
what  I  feel,  what  I  know  to  be  true,  you  will 
have  to  own  that  there  is  a  something  in  the 
Irish  character  which  makes  them  a  people  apart 
from  and,  in  their  innate  spirituality,  above  all 
others. 

"Letters  from  Ireland,"  which,  by  the  way, 
was  obviously  never  penned  by  a  man,  is  a 
most  useful  and — alas !  that  I  must  own  it — a 
truthful  little  book.  The  copies  of  it  that  fall 
into  the  hands  for  which  it  is  intended  cannot 
fail  to  do  a  part  at  least  of  the  good  that  its 
authoress,  a  practical  lover  of  her  country,  wishes. 


4  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

But  when  .  her  readers  fail  to  grasp  that  she  is 
writing  solely  from  a  materialistic  point  of  view, 
and  that  abuse  of  her  own  country — for  which 
she  is  doing  good  work  with  tongue  and  pen — 
is  not  intended,  then  her  little  book  needs  some 
amplification. 

That  the  state  of  things  she  describes  and 
deplores,  that  she  is  working  to  improve,  is  the 
outcome  of  past  oppressive  laws,  cannot  be 
denied,  but  this  is  no  excuse  for  the  continu- 
ance of  a  state  of  things  which,  as  she  says, 
is  a  disgrace  to  a  race  entitled  on  other 
grounds  to  so  high  a  position  in  the  grades 
of  nations.  All  lovers  of  Ireland  should  there- 
fore welcome  a  book  which  will  help  to  improve 
the  material  well-being  of  Ireland,  no  matter 
how  humiliating  it  may  be  to  our  national 
pride. 

It  is  a  well  known  and  a  very  true  saying 
that  Saxon  and  Celt  might  come  to  the  under- 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  5 

standing  they  have  so  long  sought  and  always 
missed 

"If  England  would  remember, 
And  Ireland  could  forget." 

England  at  last  is  remembering.  In  her  Saxon 
fashion  she  is  doing  all  she  can  to  atone  for 
the  faults  of  the  past,  and  Ireland  must  forget. 
We  can  only  hope  that  with  increasing  educational 
and  material  advantages  she  will  soon  arrive  at 
this  desired  point  of  forgetfulness.  Otherwise 
the  blame  for  our  shortcomings,  which  for  so 
many  generations  we  have  comfortably  saddled 
upon  England,  will  have  to  be  taken  on  our 
own  shoulders,  and  we  shall  have,  in  common 
honesty,  to  remain  silent  when  such  accusations 
as  yours  are  levelled  at  us. 

Even  now  we  cannot  deny  our  faults,  but 
still  there  remains  another  and  a  higher  side  of 
Irish  nature  which  must  not  be  ignored,  if,  even 
without  being   merciful,  we   wish   to   be  just,  to 


6  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

our  own.  I  am  an  Irishwoman.  I  will  admit,  if 
you  like,  that  I  am  consequently  idle,  apathetic, 
and  dirty,  but  I  do  claim  some  redeeming  points. 
So  it  is  with  us  all,  and  the  consciousness  of 
these  redeeming  points,  hidden  though  they  often 
are,  should  help  us  to  bear  with  our  national 
failings,  and  nerve  us  to  greater  eiForts  in  the 
cause  of  rational  regeneration  as  championed  in 
**  Letters  from  Ireland." 

The  time  for  silence  has  not  yet  come,  so 
bear  with  my  garrulity,  and  read  how  personal 
experience  has  taught  me  to  look  on  Ireland, 
her  virtues,  and  her  failings.  The  facts  that  I 
shall  set  down  must  speak  for  themselves,  and 
the  vaunted  justice  of  the  English  nation  will 
be  belied,  if,  when  you  have  read,  you  cannot 
spare  some  little  admiration  for  the  country  that, 
from  a  thorough  knowledge  of  it,  I  have  learned 
to  love  so  dearly.  To  love  one's  country,  seeing 
nothing  beyond  the  American  photograph,  would 
be  impossible  —  though   pity   is    supposed    to    be 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  7 

akin  to  love — but  it  is  quite  possible  to  see  its 
faults  and  yet  to  love  it  for  the  sake  of  the 
high  and  really  beautiful  qualities  that  some  of 
the  individual  owners  of  these  faults  possess. 
Scripture  tells  us  that  "  A  little  leaven  leaveneth 
the  lump."  As  you  have  to  live  in  Ireland, 
Joan,  may  I  help  you  to  see  that  leaven  ? 

Do  you  remember  when  you  first  went  to 
Ballynaraggit,  I  asked  you  to  go  and  see  old 
Paddy  Farrell,  who  lived  on  the  Doones  ?  The 
description  that  you  gave  me  of  your  visit  was 
something  like  this  : 

*  I  have  been  to  see  your  old  man,  but  I 
do  wish,  my  dear  Patricia,  that  your  proteges 
lived  in  more  accessible  places.  The  so-called 
road  was  ankle  deep  in  mud,  and  what  the 
mayor  and  corporation,  or  whatever  your  local 
authorities  call  themselves,  are  about,  1  can't 
imagine.  Then  there  are  no  gates  or  even 
stiles,  and  the  horrid  untidy  bushes  in  the  gate- 
ways  scratched   my    legs    and    tore    my    clothes. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

As  for  the  old  man's  house  when  I  did  get  to 
it,  I  can  only  say  that  I  would  not  shut  my 
eyes  all  night  if  I  thought  Toodles  or  Wowsey 
(1  forget  which  was  the  canine  treasure  just 
then)  had  to  sleep  in  such  a  place,  and  yet 
when  I  told  the  old  man  that  he  ought  to  go 
to  the  workhouse  he  was  almost  rude.  As 
for  his  clothes,  they  were  absolutely  too — too — . 
Really,  darling,  I  can't  imagine  how  you  can 
even  pretend  to  like  such  creatures." 

Now,  Joan,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  some- 
thing more  about  Paddy,  and  to  begin  with,  let 
me  describe  one  of  my  visits  to  him. 

The  road  to  Doone  is  almost  always  muddy, 
but  there  are  stretches  of  grass  on  either  side  of 
it  which  enable  a  rider  to  canter  even  before 
leaving  the  highway.  Beyond  this  point  no 
tiresome  gates  or  stiles  get  in  one's  way.  The 
gaps  are  stuffed  with  a  couple  of  bushes  that 
just  make  a  nice  little  hop  for  the  pony.  The 
last    fence    has    no    gap,    but    it    is    only    a    tiny 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  9 

ditch  and  bank,  and  the  clatter  of  stones  on 
the  landing-side  brought  Paddy  out  to  welcome 
me. 

"God's  blessin'  be  about  you,  and  you  on  a 
peaceable  baste  for  the  onct.  When  I  see  the 
big  red  divil  (my  poor  chestnut !)  under  y'r 
honor,  me  heart  gets  shifted,  an'  I'm  like  to 
die." 

Paddy  had  had  trouble  lately.  His  precious 
spectacles  "got  broke  on  him  'twill  be  two  weeks 
come  Sunday,  and  ne'er  a  stim  good  bad  or 
indifferent  can  he  see." 

I  had  a  pair  of  glasses  for  him  in  my  pocket, 
and  these  he  hastily  and  gratefully  put  on. 

"Grand  then,  grand  entirely,"  he  murmured, 
and  out  of  a  rag  -  covered  recess  in  his  coat  he 
produced  a  well-thumbed,  a  most  unclean  copy 
of  the  penny  prayer-book.  "  A  prayer — before — 
mass — give — us — O  Almighty — and  eternal " 

He  read  aloud  in  a  monotonous  sing-song 
voice,   ending   up  with    "grand,   grand   entirely." 


10  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

Then  looking  up  at  me,  an  expression  of  blank 
amazement  overspread  his  countenance.  *'  Glory 
be  to  God,  y'r  honor,"  he  ejaculated,  "  I  never 
knew  you  had  so  big  a  face  on  you  before." 

Even  when  the  glasses  with  their  marvellous 
magnifying  powers  had  been  laid  aside,  he  could 
scarcely  be  reassured  as  to  the  normal  proportion 
of  my  features,  and  to  distract  his  attention  I 
began  to  enquire  after  his  health. 

"  'Tis  grand  I  am,  thanks  be  to  God,"  he  said. 
"I'd  be  as  soople  as  them  boys  in  the  hurley  field 
of  a  Sunday,  an'  me  eighty-one  years  of  age,  if 
it  wasn't  for  the  pains  that  ketches  me  in  the 
back,  and  has  me  destroyed." 

I  offered  him  some  red  flannel,  usually  an 
eagerly  accepted  panacea  for  all  rheumatic  affec- 
tions, but  to  my  astonishment  Paddy  demurred, 
hesitated,  and  finally  refused  my  offer. 

"  You  wouldn't  take  a  bit  of  flannel  from  me, 
Paddy?  Now,  why  is  that?  Do  you  think  it 
would  be  troubling  me,  or  why  ? " 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  11 

"  Well,  it's  the  truth  I  will  be  tellin'  y'r  honor 
an'  no  lie.  I  haven't  a  whit  o'  aches  or  sufFerin' 
on  me  barrin'  them  pains  I  do  be  tellin'  you 
about,  and  if  I  lost  the  only  thing  that  likens 
me  to  the  Son  of  God,  I'd  be  fearin'  maybe 
that  God  Himself  had  forgotten  me." 

Joan,  dear,  is  any  pretence  needed  about 
loving  a  saint  when  one  is  fortunate  enough  to 
know  one  ? 

I  suppose  you  did  not  trouble  to  go  up  the 
Doone  against  the  side  of  which  Paddy's  miser- 
able little  cabin  is  built.  From  above  it  looks 
like  a  heap  of  dead  grass  and  rushes,  but  it  is 
his  home,  his  very  own,  come  to  him  from  his 
father,  and  from  seven  generations  before  that. 

A  stretch  of  bog-land  lies  at  one's  feet,  brown 
and  yellow.  Fading  to  buff  near  at  hand,  it 
turns  to  deep  brown,  deep  brilliant  brown,  merging 
into  purple,  which  changes  to  indigo  against  the 
blue  hills  of  the  horizon.  The  dark  green  of  a 
clump   of  fir-trees   tones    down    the   almost   too 


12  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

vivid  emerald  of  the  meadows  beyond  the  stream 
whose  waters  ghsten  here  and  there  Uke  diamonds 
in  the  bog.  At  one  side  there  is  a  chain  of 
lakes.  The  tall  reeds  that  edge  the  nearest  are 
distinguishable,  waving  gracefully,  while  round 
the  further  ones  they  merely  show  as  a  softening 
fringe.  But  the  lights,  the  indescribable  lights — 
purple,  blood -red,  golden,  silvery  -  grey,  all  soft, 
all  beautiful,  mingling  with  one  another — are  the 
crowning  glory  of  the  scene.  You  did  not  see 
all  this,  Joan,  I  know,  because  Dora  Sigerson's 
lines  to  Ireland  are  so  true  : 

"  God  has  made  you  all  fair, 
You  in  purple  and  gold, 
You  in  silver  and  green, 
Till  no  eye  that  has  seen 
Without  love  can  behold." 

No,  poor  Joan,  as  yet  your  "eyes  have  not 
seen." 

I  expect  that  at  the  time  of  the  big  storm 
they  told  you  that  Paddy  Farrell  was  found 
dead,  but  did  they  give   you   any  details  ?     The 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  13 

facts  have  reached  me  here.  The  local  colouring 
I  can  picture  for  myself. 

He  had  been  into  the  town  to  get  the  pittance 
allowed  him  as  "out-door  relief"  from  the  Union. 
Six  coppers  were  found  afterwards  in  his  pocket ; 
the  rest  of  his  weekly  income,  amounting  to 
another  eighteenpence,  had  been  spent  in  buying 
a  tiny  packet  of  tea,  a  candle,  some  sugar  and 
an  infinitesimal  twist  of  tobacco.  These  also 
were  found  upon  him.  Even  the  tobacco  was 
untouched,  though  it  had  evidently  been  fingered, 
but,  as  he  possessed  no  matches,  the  luxury  of  a 
pipe  had  been  denied  him. 

Can't  you  imagine  the  wind  on  that  night 
of  storm  along  the  road  from  Ballynaraggit  ? 
Coming  unchecked  from  further  than  eye  could 
reach,  gaining  force  with  every  mile  of  open  bog 
that  it  traversed,  the  gale  burst  upon  the  solitary 
eighty-one-year-old  traveller  who  was  slowly  and 
painfully  making  his  way  to  Doone. 

Why  did  he  not  stay  the  night  in  town  when 


14  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

such  a  storm  was  threatening  ?  Who  knows  ? 
Perhaps  he  felt  the  shadow  of  death  upon  him, 
and  a  bhnd  animal  instinct  may  have  dragged 
his  unwilling  feet,  his  weary  aching  body  home- 
ward. Perhaps  he  foresaw  that  the  home  of  his 
seven  generations  was  destined  to  destruction, 
and  pride  of  race  bade  the  last  of  the  name  to 
be  present  at  the  fall.  No  one  knows  where  the 
breaking  of  the  storm  came  upon  him.  Not  far 
from  home,  probably,  for  he  was  able  to  drag 
himself  to  the  shelter  of  the  high  bank  that  rises 
up  where  bog  gives  way  to  meadow  land,  and 
there,  in  the  bottom  of  the  ditch  which  winter 
rains  had  not  yet  flooded,  Paddy  sat  down  to 
rest — and  die. 

What  were  his  thoughts,  crouched  there  with 
the  storm  roaring  and  thundering  above  him  ? 
Was  he  troubled  with  regrets  for  the  priest  at 
whose  feet  he  had  knelt  in  his  rags  month  after 
month  these  years  past?  for  the  brown  habit  of 
Mount   Carmel,  bought  with  his  scant  savings  to 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  15 

die  in,  and  now  lying  useless  in  the  cabin  over  the 
fields  ?  Did  the  sins  of  his  past  life  crowd  round 
and  overwhelm  him  ?  For  he  knew  that  death 
was  at  hand.  He  had  no  habit  to  put  on  ;  then  the 
Mother  of  God  must  own  him  by  the  scapulars 
that  he  wore.  Painfully,  with  stiffening  fingers,  he 
drew  the  brown  braid  from  his  neck,  kissing  the 
badges  reverently,  and  then  clasping  them  closely 
to  him.  Round  the  other  hand  was  turned 
and  twisted  his  old  black  rosary,  and  if  there 
was  no  light  to  see,  still  his  lips  could  feel  the 
well-worn  figure  of  the  Saviour,  Who,  alone  also, 
had  suffered  the  pangs  of  death  for  him.  Then 
he  closed  his  eyes,  but  his  treasures,  scapulars 
and  rosary,  were  still  kept  tightly  clasped,  and 
in  the  morning,  when  they  found  him — dead — 
they  could  not,  did  not  seek,  to  rob  him  of 
them. 

Joan,  dear,  don't  you  think,  when  the  angels 
came  to  take  the  soul  away  out  of  the  dark  cold 
ditch,  that  they  thought  less  of  the  unwashed  face, 


16  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE    WAND 

the  clothes  that  were  really  too — too — ,  of  the 
coppers  taken  in  dole  from  the  Union,  than 
they  did  of  the  prayers  that  rose  to  Heaven,  of 
the  pains  gladly  suffered  because  they  likened 
the  sufferer  to  Christ,  of  the  rosary  and  the 
crucifix  that  claimed  the  last  material  thoughts 
of  my  friend,  Paddy  Farrell. — Your  loving 

Patricia. 


11 

My  dear  Joan, — You  are  wrong  in  thinking  that 
I  am  trying  to  refute  the  allegations  brought 
against  the  Irish  race  in  those  other  letters. 
Alas  !  I  could  not  do  that  because — and  again 
alas !  alas  ! — their  truth  is  borne  out  by  the  lives 
and  behaviour  of  far  too  many  of  my  countrymen 
to  allow  of  any  wholesale  refutation. 

What  I  want  to  prove  to  you  is,  that  in  spite 
of  all  our  faults  we  still  have  redeeming  points, 
and  that  life  in  Ireland  is  not  necessarily  un- 
endurable. To  a  philanthropist,  pici^  et  simple, 
work  amongst  the  Irish  poor  must,  I  fear,  be 
very  despairing,  in  spite  of  individually  successful 
cases.      There    is    the    quickness    to    grasp,    the 

ability  to  perform,  even  the  intelligence  to  admire 

17  B 


18  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

better  things,  yet  put  these  in  the  balance,  and 
they  are  utterly  outweighed  by  the  faults  that 
you  are  inclined  to  exult  over,  but  I  and  the 
writer  of  the  American  letters  deplore. 

As  a  nation  we  have  many  faults  (that  we 
have  them  as  individuals  goes  without  saying,  for 
no  one  supposes  we  were  born  without  original 
sin),  but  in  order  that  you  and  I  may  be  able  to 
bear  with  these  faults  and  do  our  little  best  to 
counteract  them,  let  us  be  wiUing  to  see  that  good 
quaUties  exist  as  well  as  evil  ones.  Hidden  they 
may  be,  but  they  are  still  there.  To  find  these 
good  qualities  we  must  look  to  individuals,  not  to 
the  nation  as  a  whole,  and  having  found  examples 
of  them  here  and  there,  we  must  take  them  as 
"  a  little  leaven "  to  leaven  the  lump  of  our 
national  imperfections. 

So  it  comes  back  to  that  with  which  I  started. 

I  do  not  try  to  meet  the  accusations  of  the 
American  letters,  much  less  do  I  try  to  refute  them. 

I    only  ask   for   a   little   leniency,  in   spite   of 


THE   BECKOxNING   OF   THE   WAND  19 

the  faults   of  our   many,   because   of  the   virtues 
of  our  few. 

I  wish  you  could  have  come  with  me  upon 
a  round  of  visits  I  paid  one  summer  day  not 
long  ago,  for  I  think  even  you  would  have  been 
interested,  would  have  seen  some  of  the  attrac- 
tions that,  in  spite  of  needless  dirt  and  poverty, 
make  Ireland 

" A  piteous  land, 

Yet  ever  beckoning  with  enchanted  wand." 

A  narrow  lane  leads  from  a  high  road 
through  lovely  green  fields  down  almost  to  the 
edge  of  the  bog.  Here  in  the  yard  of  a 
"comfortable"  farmer  the  cart  track — it  is  little 
more — ceases  to  exist,  and  we  must  continue  our 
journey  along  a  grassy  footpath  until  our  feet 
rest  on  the  crisp,  springy  heather  where  only 
one  to  the  country  born  can  make  his  way  dry 
shod.  The  cottage  which  was  our  destination 
differed  little  in  appearance  from  the  neighbouring 
turf  clamps.      The  door  was  closed,  but  a  slight 


20  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

push  enabled  us  to  enter,  with  heads  bowed  by 
the  remembrance  of  past  knocks  from  just  such 
sooty  rafters. 

The  Widow  Hanratty  is  generally  on  the 
threshold  to  greet  us,  but  to-day  the  kitchen  was 
empty  and  fireless,  and  a  voice  came  feebly  from 
the  gloom  of  the  inner  room. 

"  Who  is  it  I  have  here  ?  Then  praises  be 
to  God  for  sending  you,  an'  me  with  not  a  bone 
in  me  body  but's  broke  since  the  nanny-goat 
threw  me  in  the  gripe." 

The  "  gripe "  is  a  mearing  fence,  both  wide 
and  deep,  and  the  nanny-goat's  horns  had  left 
severe  bruises  behind  them,  besides  dislocating 
the  poor  old  shoulder.  Nothing  had  been  done 
to  ease  the  pain,  although  a  week  had  passed 
since  the  accident  happened. 

"The  boy  (aged  sixty)  was  for  telling  the 
ladies  the  way  it  was  with  me,"  so  she  recounted, 
"but  then  he  didn't  like  for  to  be  troubling. 
'Tis   the   good  son  he  is   to   me,   fixing   me   up 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  21 

finely  and  setting  the  holy  water  beside  me  and 
the  cup  o'  tea  too  before  ever  he  goes  out  to 
work  of  a  morning." 

The  tea -cup  was  now  empty  and  we  set  to 
work  to  fill  it  again.  The  fire  in  the  kitchen, 
however,  was  out,  and  no  match  forthcoming, 
so,  tin  can  in  hand,  we  retraced  our  steps  to 
the  farm  at  the  lane  end,  where  we  were  made 
welcome  to  a  "  live  "  turf,  which  we  carried  care- 
fully back,  all  glowing,  under  a  layer  of  ashes. 
A  mug  full  of  bog  water  did  not  take  long  to 
boil,  and  soon,  with  the  help  of  a  "  grain  "  of  tea 
and  a  small  bottle  of  milk,  produced  from  our 
pockets,  it  made  a  cheering  cup,  which  was 
eagerly  drunk  by  the  invalid. 

The  "wrapper,"  which  was  the  widow's  chief 
article  of  wearing  apparel,  showed  comparatively 
white  against  the  smoke-grimed,  straw-filled  sacks 
and  coverlets  that  formed  her  bed,  but  it  had  got 
so  wound  round  the  uninjured  arm  that  this  was 
as  helpless  as  the  other,  and  it  was  no  easy  task 


22  THE    BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

setting  it  to  rights.  The  slightest  movement 
was  pain  to  her,  yet  she  begged  us  to  dive  into 
dark  recesses  all  about  her  to  find  "her  one 
comfort,"  the  rosary  beads  that  had  slipped  from 
her  fingers. 

A  few  days  later  we  met  the  doctor,  who 
at  our  request  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  Widow 
Hanratty,  and  with  dexterous  fingers  set  the 
dislocated  limb.  He  spoke  with  so  grave  a 
face  that  we  feared  she  must  have  succumbed 
after  all. 

"  Indeed  you  cannot  go  there  again,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  could  not  answer  for  the  consequences  if  you 
did." 

Visions  of  the  most  infectious  diseases  rose 
up  before  us,  and  we  begged  for  further  informa- 
tion. At  first  he  would  say  no  more,  but  at 
length  we  forced  him  to  speak: 

"The  truth  is,"  he  hesitated  even  then,  "the 
truth  is  that  in  that  house  there  are  myriads 
and  myriads  of  fleas  ! " 


THE    BECKONING    OF   THE    WAND  23 

This  was  a  fact  of  which  we  had  not  been 
allowed  to  remain  unaware,  and  one  which  the 
nuns,  too,  were  not  long  in  finding  out,  when, 
a  few  days  later  Mrs  Hanratty  consented  to  be 
carried  ten  miles  off  to  the  workhouse  infirmary. 

The  next  house,  also  a  turf-walled,  sod-roofed 
cabin,  was  the  home  of  the  saddest  of  all  our 
acquaintances.  Biddy  Muldoon  was  alone  in  the 
world,  and  the  dread  disease  that  had  attacked 
her  face  debarred  her  from  a  welcome  in  any  of 
the  neighbours'  houses,  although  every  one  around 
was  willing  to  help  her  as  best  they  could. 

She  was  a  pitiable  object  as  she  crouched  at  the 
door  of  her  hovel,  and  when  the  breezes  blowing 
over  the  bog  raised  the  dirty  rags  that  covered  a 
part  of  her  face,  we  could  not  resist  drawing  our 
hats  over  our  eyes,  anxious  not  to  hurt  poor 
Biddy's  feelings,  yet  unable  to  gaze  on  so  terrible 
a  sight.  But  her  senses  were  keener  than  we 
thought,  and  a  skinny  arm  was  extended  to  thrust 
back  the  sheltering  brims. 


24  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

*'  Is  it  from  the  likes  o'  me  you  come  to 
learn  manners  ?  "  she  asked  reproachfully.  "  Have 
you  never  been  taught  to  look  a  body  in  the 
face  when  you  speak  to  them  ? " 

But  it  was  not  in  body  alone  that  Biddy 
suffered.  She  was  one  of  the  very,  very  few — of 
the  two  or  three  out  of  six  hundred  in  the 
parish — who  had  not  approached  the  Sacraments 
for  years.  By  her  own  act,  poor  soul,  she 
deprived  herself  of  what  ought  to  have  been  her 
greatest  consolation.  Repeated  pleadings  had  been 
fruitless,  and  at  last  one  day  something  urged 
me  to  speak  more  plainly  than  ever  before,  more 
plainly  than  is  usually  advisable. 

"  The  truth  is,  Biddy,  that  you  have  been  ill  so 
long  that  you  forget  how  dangerous  your  illness 
is.  Don't  you  know  that  at  any  moment  now 
a  blood  vessel  may  be  touched,  and  then  you 
will  bleed  to  death  before  the  priest  can  come  to 
you,  or  before  you  can  even  call  one  of  the 
neighbours  to  send  for  him  ? " 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  25 

A  half-hearted  promise  to  send  for  the  priest 
"some  time"  was  all  we  could  extract  at  the 
moment,  but  that  night  a  horse's  footfall  on  the 
frost-bound  road  told  of  a  sick  call  in  Biddy's 
direction,  and  we  hoped — and  rightly,  thank  God, 
as  we  afterwards  learnt — that  our  words  had  been 
spoken  in  time,  and  had  had  more  effect  than 
we  imagined. 

Not  many  days  after,  and  before  we  were  able 
to  get  down  to  the  bog  again,  a  passer-by  on 
that  lonely  road,  seeing  no  smoke  rising  from 
the  hole  in  the  cabin  roof  that  did  duty  for  a 
chimney,  forced  open  the  door.  He  found  Biddy 
lying  on  the  cold  hearthstone,  alone,  stiff,  quite 
dead. 

Mrs  Brolly,  the  next  door  neighbour  of  poor 
Biddy,  was  standing  at  the  door  of  her  comfort- 
able cottage  as  we  passed  by,  and  we  stopped, 
just  to  "bid  her  the  time  of  day."  She  is  well 
to  do  and  comfortable  enough,  with  steady  sturdy 
sons  all  earning  for  her.     There  is  only  one  gap 


26  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

in  the  family  circle,  and  this  was  caused  by  the 
death  of  a  boy  in  the  South  African  war.  "  But 
I  can't  complain,"  Mrs  Brolly  had  said  to  us  at 
the  time.  "  God  has  been  very  good  when  He 
didn't  leave  me  stript  entirely,  like  Lord  Roberts." 

She  eyed  us  with  certain  disfavour  as  we 
stopped  to  accost  her. 

"  Where's  this  your  sister  is,  miss  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  It's  not  me  own  lady  I  have  to-day  at  all." 

The  absence  of  her  special  friend  being 
explained  to  her,  she  was  seemingly  content. 

"  Sure  isn't  she  the  beautiful  lady,"  she 
murmured  half  to  herself.  "  When  she  comes  in 
here  to  me,  isn't  she  for  all  the  world  like  a 
fallen  angel ! " 

Further  on  was  a  house  that  claimed  from  us 
that  most  painful  of  duties,  a  visit  of  condolence. 
The  newly-made  widow  came  out  to  greet  us 
with  four  or  five  of  her  ten  fatherless  children 
clinging  to  her  skirts. 

There    were    no    words    of    complaint.      She 


JiOSTON  0OLLE6^8  LIBRART 
CHESTNUT  HILL,  MASS. 

THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  27 

listened  quietly  to  our  halting  words  of  sympathy, 
and  then  spoke  resignedly,  merely  stating  facts. 

"And  I'm  not  the  only  one  left  desolate  in 
the  parish,"  she  said.  "There's  Margit  Carmody 
gone,  God  rest  her  soul,  an'  she  leaving  a 
houseful  of  children  after  her,  an'  they  do  say 
Hugh  JNl'Gloyne  is  going,  an'  him  with  five 
young  gossoons.  Oh,  'tis  a  terrible  year  of 
orphans,  that  it  is,  God  Almighty  help  us  all." 

Another  long  lane,  this  time  leading  back 
from  bog  to  uplands,  took  us  to  the  home  of 
Ellen  Muldoon  which  she  shares  with  a  blind 
old  friend — or  rather  cousin — Margaret  Flynn. 
It  is  a  good  house,  but  Ellen,  who  is  over 
seventy  and  is  doubled  with  rheumatism  to 
within  three  feet  of  the  ground,  is  not  able  to 
keep  it  as  she  would  wish.  "  It  has  pleased 
God  to  leave  me  very  small,"  she  told  us  once, 
peering  up  into  our  faces,  "  but  what  matter ! 
His  holy  will  be  done." 

She   is    a    lone  woman,   the    last    of    an   old 


28  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

family  who  have  come  down  in  the  world.  She 
has  worked  hard  all  her  life,  but  has  kept  a 
brave  heart,  aye,  and  a  merry  one,  through  all. 

"You  wouldn't  think  to  see  the  place  now," 
she  said,  "that  'twas  meself  was  reared  in 
it,  so  tender,  under  fourteen  cows.  But  God's 
good,"  she  added  cheerfully,  "sending  poor 
Margaret  to  keep  me  company  when  He  took 
the  last  of  me  own  to  Himself.  That  was  me 
sister  Marcelle,  an'  she  after  lying  there  twelve 
years  an'  not  a  stir  out  of  her,  hand  or  foot, 
the  creature ! " 

"And  you  minded  her  all  that  time,  Ellen, 
did  you  ? "  we  asked. 

"To  be  sure  an'  I  did,  then.  An'  now  it's 
Margaret  I  have  to  mind.  She  gets  that  fretful 
time  an'  again,"  she  added  in  a  lower  voice  as 
a  querulous  voice  comes  from  the  kitchen,  "and 
what  wonder,  with  her  affliction,  but  one  must 
be  doing  something  for  God's  sake." 

Margaret  was   sitting    despondently  over  the 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  29 

fire,  her  beads  in  her  hands.  She  was  cheered 
by  the  sweets  we  had  brought  her,  and  after 
eating  a  large  and  very  strong  peppermint 
lozenge,  she  began  to  talk  in  less  doleful  tones 
of  bygone  days.  Her  stories  had  been  told  to 
us  many  times  before,  but  it  pleased  her  to 
repeat  them  once  again. 

"She'll  be  heartened  up  this  long  while,  so 
she  will,"  Ellen  assured  us,  "after  her  chat  with 
you  to-day." 

It  was  late  when  at  last  we  reached  the  village, 
and,  cUmbing  a  short  steep  staircase,  entered  a 
spotlessly  clean  room,  where  Rosie  Macminn  lay 
dying.  She  was  quite  young,  not  much  over 
twenty,  but  the  hectic  flush  on  her  wan  face, 
the  thin  white  fingers  that  clasped  our  own,  told 
their  tale  of  the  ravages  of  decline.  A  heap  of 
booklets  lay  ready  to  be  returned  to  us,  and  eager 
eyes  sought  out  the  new  ones  we  had  brought. 
In  husky  tones  she  begged  a  favour  :  might  she — 
her   time   was   now   so   short,    and,    unlike    most 


30  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   AVAND 

consumptives,  she  recognised  the  fact — might  she 
keep  one  httle  book,  her  favourite.  It  was 
"Ahne,"  pubUshed  by  the  Irish  Cathohc  Truth 
Society.  "  I  Hke  to  read  what  she  suffered,'' 
Rosie  whispered,  "for  it  helps  me  to  thank 
God  that  I  have  no  pain  to  bear,  only  just  to 
lie  here  and  wait."  Yes,  truly  her  time  of 
waiting  to  see  God  would  be  short.  Angels 
seemed  already  to  be  watching  for  that  patient 
soul. 

The  last  house  on  our  round  though  poor 
was  clean  also,  and  fairly  well  aired,  and  here 
again  a  young  woman  was  waiting  for  death.  We 
told  Mary  Dowd  of  those  others  whom  we 
had  visited,  of  the  girl  only  a  few  years  her 
junior  who,  like  herself,  was  dying.  Her  disease 
is  usually  a  most  painful  one,  but,  thank  God, 
Mary  had  been  spared  from  very  great  suffering, 
and  through  all,  through  weariness,  through 
discomfort,  through  pain  the  same  words  were 
ever  on  her  lips. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  31 

"If  He  would  take  me  to  Himself  wouldn't 
it  be  good  for  me,  but  His  holy  will  be  done." 

Once  again  she  said  this  as  we  bade  her  good- 
bye and  turned  our  faces  towards  home. 

Ah,  Joan !  they  do  make  one  feel  ashamed  of 
oneself,  these  patient  sufferers ! 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west,  the  rooks 
were  cawing  lazily  in  the  great,  overhanging  trees, 
the  water  of  the  river  glimmered  under  the 
crimson  and  gold  of  sunset,  the  air  was  filled 
with  summer  scents  and  sounds ;  then  a  wave 
of  thanksgiving  rose  up  within  us,  and  three 
words  came  to  us  suddenly,  "  Laetus  sorte  mea." 
Yes,  Joan,  in  spite  of  the  sad  deficiencies  of 
Ireland,  I  say  and  feel  it,  "  My  lines  have  fallen 
in  pleasant  places,  and   happy  is  my  lot." — Your 

loving 

Patricia. 


Ill 

My  dear  Joan, — You  say  that  my  friends  live 
in  inaccessible  places,  but  it  really  is  not  the  case 
with  all  of  them,  for  old  D'Arcy,  "the  widow- 
man's"  wife,  was  one  of  my  friends,  and  you 
know  where  his  house  is.  It  stands  alone,  apart 
from  its  neighbours,  a  slated  building  showing 
white  against  a  lonely  background  of  green.  The 
waters  of  a  wide  lake  lap  the  causeway  leading 
to  it,  and  the  cry  of  the  seagull,  the  coot,  and 
the  plover  make  its  solitude  seem  deeper  than 
it  really  is.  Mrs  D'Arcy  was  the  mother  of 
seven  sons,  but  God  had  sent  no  daughter  to 
her,  and  in  her  old  age  she  was  left  to  the  rough 
tenderness  of  her  old  husband,  whilst  the  two  boys 
spared  by  the   emigration   fever  worked  for  their 

parents. 

32 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  33 

When  first  I  knew  her  she  was  tall,  almost 
stately  in  her  carriage,  with  smooth,  olive  skin 
and  black  eyes  that  betrayed  a  dash  of  gipsy 
blood.  She  was  never  quite  like  her  neighbours, 
and  from  the  time  of  her  illness  this  difference 
gradually  increased.  I  had  known  her  all  my 
life.  I  remember  as  a  little  girl  clattering  on  a 
shaggy  pony  along  the  stony  causeway  near  her 
house  to  borrow  one  of  her  snowy  muslin  caps  for 
private  theatricals  and  receiving,  with  the  cap  and 
many  blessings,  a  piece  of  home-baked  oatcake, 
liberally  covered  with  brown  sugar.  But  our  real 
friendship  began  only  about  six  years  ago,  when 
first  she  fell  ill. 

No  one  seemed  to  know  what  was  the  matter, 
but  the  pains  that  bowed  the  once  straight  back 
and  bent  the  once  active  figure  were  put  down 
to  the  close  proximity  of  the  lake,  and  it  was 
only  after  weary  months  had  passed  that  the 
symptoms  of  creeping  paralysis  disclosed  them- 
selves.    Day  after  day,  week   after  week,  she  sat 


34  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

in  the  chimney  corner,  growing  more  and  more 
helpless,  more  and  more  suffering.  At  first  her 
mind  was  clear  and  active.  The  enforced  idleness 
was  physical  pain  to  her,  and  the  least  wrinkle  in 
her  kerchief,  the  least  unevenness  in  the  goffering 
of  her  muslin  cap,  washed,  ironed,  and  made  up 
by  the  clumsy,  patient  hands  of  the  old  man, 
were  causes  of  querulous  complaint. 

The  new  housekeeper  was  wonderfully  skilful 
in  his  work.  At  first  he  kept  the  house  as  clean 
as  when  "herself"  was  about,  but  by  degrees,  as 
the  disease  crept  slowly  on,  things  went  worse. 
She  needed  more  attention  than  at  first ;  over 
and  over  again  in  the  night  she  called  him  to 
her,  only,  perhaps,  to  smooth  a  sheet  or  raise  a 
pillow,  but  his  rest  was  disturbed,  and  he  became 
older,  more  broken,  ever  less  able  to  do  the  work 
that  grew  and  pressed  upon  him.  The  boys  were 
out  from  early  dawn  to  dark,  and  sometimes  Mrs 
D'Arcy  was  left  quite  alone.  Then  if  I  came  by, 
there  was  a  search  for  the  cottage  key,  for,  like 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  35 

a  child,  she  was  locked  in.  Under  the  black  pot, 
in  the  potato  basket  on  the  wall,  in  the  tufts  of 
marsh  grass  near  the  gate,  every  possible  hiding- 
place  was  searched,  and  usually  with  success. 
Entering,  I  used  to  find  her  sunk  in  her  wicker 
chair,  veritably  doubled  in  two,  and  fastened 
round  her  waist,  to  the  ladder  leading  to  the 
sleeping  loft  above.  This  was  a  necessary  pre- 
caution when  the  fire  was  so  near :  once,  indeed, 
I  found  her  with  her  sacking  apron  smouldering 
unnoticed  at  her  feet,  and  a  hve  ember  lying 
upon  it. 

"Who  is  it  1  have?"  was  her  invariable 
question  as  I  opened  the  door,  and  the  answer 
always  brought  me  the  same  greeting :  "  God  be 
good  to  you,  daughter  machree."  Then  sitting 
in  the  close  dark  kitchen  I  had  to  listen  to  her 
moans.  She  could  not,  could  not,  resign  herself 
to  powerlessness  or  to  suffering.  I  had  to  feel 
her  fingers,  to  raise  her  poor  bowed  head,  that  of 
itself    could   not    keep    straight,   and  with   those 


36  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

pleading,  agonised  eyes  upon  me,  how  could  I  tell 
the  naked  truth,  and  say  that  I  saw  no  improve- 
ment, knew  no  cure  was  possible?     And  so  my 
words  of  comfort   came  stumblingly.     It  seemed 
so   meaningless   for   me,    sitting   still   for   half  an 
hour,    coming   in   from   the   outer  sunshine,  from 
the  living  interests  of  my  own  life,  to  speak  to 
this   rigid   pain-racked   prisoner   of  her  purgatory 
in  this  world,  of  the  crown  that  suffering  alone 
can   win.     And   what   I    said   never   brought   her 
consolation.      Only   a   torrent   of  tears   and   sobs 
that   shook    and    weakened    her,    and    the    ever- 
repeated    cry :    "  Why    should     I     be    taken    so, 
daughter    dear?     Why   should    it   just   be   me?" 
They  grew  more  painful,  these  visits,  as  time  went 
on,  and  often  I  let  weeks  pass  without  going  to 
see   her,  thinking   it  was  better  so.     But  always 
when  I  met  the  old  man  he  used  to  say  that  she 
was  asking  for  me,  and  again  I  went,  and  again 
came    the    hopeless    questionings,   the    seemingly 
useless  replies. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  37 

It  was  in  Holy  Week,  four  years  ago,  that  I 
went,  and  at  last  I  had  found  words — not  my 
own — to  answer  her.  I  gave  no  time  for  more 
than  the  usual  greeting. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  book  to  -  day,  JNIrs 
D'Arcy,"  I  said.  "  It  is  Good  Friday,  and  I  am 
going  to  read  the  Passion  of  our  Lord  to  you." 

And,  sitting  on  a  stool,  with  the  firelight 
playing  on  the  pages  where  in  the  morning  I 
had  read  to  myself  the  inspired  lines,  I  now 
read  them  to  her. 

She  listened  attentively.  From  the  first  her 
mind,  cleared  for  the  moment  of  the  cloud  that 
was  growing  over  it,  seized  and  understood  the 
Evangelist's  words.  The  light  outside  was  fading, 
but  the  turf  gleamed  bright  about  us.  A  cricket 
sang  in  the  chimney,  and  a  half-starved  kitten, 
climbing  to  my  knee,  was  purring  unsteadily 
towards  the  flames  that  it  loved.  All  else  was 
silence. 

"  And  Pilate  took  Jesus  and  scourged  Him ; 


38  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

and  the  soldiers  plaiting  a  crown  of  thorns  put 
it  upon  His  head,  and  they  gave  Him  blows." 
And  so  through  all  the  story  of  that  supreme 
suffering.  "  Jesus  therefore  said,  '  It  is  consum- 
mated,' and,  bowing  His  head.  He  gave  up  the 
ghost." 

Then  in  the  silence  came  the  well  -  known 
sound  of  weeping,  but  looking  up  I  saw  an  un- 
known hght  shining  through  JMrs  D'Arcy's  tears. 

"  Ochone !  Ochone !  An'  all  the  tears  I've 
wasted  on  meself !  An'  all  the  complaints  because 
He  likened  me  to  Himself  by  suffering.  I  know 
it,  daughter  dear,  but  tell  me  again.  It  was  for 
me  He  suffered  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mrs  D'Arcy,  it  was  for  you." 

No  days  of  respite  came,  no  hours  of  relief. 
Only  as  time  elapsed  the  actual  pain  was  less 
as  one  by  one  her  limbs  grew^  numb  and  dead. 
I  visited  her  often,  heard  how  this  new  pain 
and  that  had  taken  her,  but  for  four  long  years 
since    that    visit    at    Passiontide    I    never    heard 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  39 

one  word  of  repining  or  of  complaint  to  pass 
those  lips.  Resignation,  complete  and  heroic, 
had  sealed  them  for  ever.  For  some  months 
her  speech  had  failed  her  so  much  that  only 
with  the  old  man's  help  was  I  able  to  under- 
stand her.  Her  mind  too  was  growing  more 
confused,  yet  she  knew  me  to  the  end  of  this 
living  death. 

Once  again  I  went  that  way.  The  sun  was 
setting,  a  golden  ball  sinking  into  the  waters  of 
the  lake  with  a  gleaming  path  of  light  leading 
to  it. 

A  black  figure  came  out  of  the  white-washed 
house,  and,  approaching  each  other,  we  met  upon 
the  causeway.     It  was  the  priest. 

"  Yes,  she  is  dead,"  he  said,  then,  raising  his  hat, 
"  and  blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord." 

Patricia. 


IV 

My   dear  Joan, — I   wish   you  had   known   Mrs 

Dh'rane ;    she   would    have    softened    your   heart 

towards  Ireland   better   than   any  letter  of  mine 

could  do.     The  whiteness  of  her  frilled  cap  would 

have  appealed  to   you,  and   the   neatness   of  her 

red  petticoat  and  fawn-coloured  shawl  could  not 

have  escaped  you,  even  if  you  had  not  noticed  the 

expression  of  her  face.     The  leading  note  of  her 

life  was  the  praise  of  God.     I  will  explain  to  you 

what  I  mean  by  this.     ]My  knowledge  of  Gaelic 

is  slight — very  slight — still  I  can  follow  the  words 

of  the  "  Hail  Mary "  which  Sunday  after  Sunday 

I  hear  murmured  in  tones  of  varied  intensity  by 

the  tightly  serried  ranks  of  patient,  benchless  men 

and  women  kneeling  on  the  cold  cement  of  the 

40 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  41 

chapel  floor,  with  faces  upturned  towards  the 
altar,  but  eyes  that  look  beyond  and  above  it. 
Betty  Dirrane,  pressed  against  the  sanctuary  rails, 
gave  me,  and  every  one  else  around,  the  benefit 
of  her  prayers.  As  the  well-worn  beads  of  her 
rosary  passed  slowly  through  her  fingers  it  struck 
me  that  her  words  did  not  fall  in  with  the  rhythm 
of  the  others,  and,  listening,  I  recognised  the 
difference. 

"Betty,"  I  said,  when  next  I  met  her,  "will 
you  tell  me  why  it  is  that  you  say  the  '  Hail 
Mary '  twice  to  every  once  you  say  the  '  Holy 
Mary'?  ' 

"Daughter  dear,  I'll  tell  you,  an'  no  lie,"  she 
answered.  "  Isn't  the  '  Holy  Mary '  nothing  but  a 
trouble  to  the  JNIother  of  God,  askin'  her  prayers 
and  the  like  ?  and  I'd  be  ashamed  not  to  be  praisin' 
her  twict  with  the  two  '  Hail  Marys '  for  the  onct 
I'd  go  troubhn'  her  wid  the  '  Holy  Mary.' " 

Ballynaraggit  was  never  Betty's  home.  She 
lived    away    on    the    coast,    and    her    only    son, 


42  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

Coleman,  was  a  sailor  in  the  Royal  Navy.  But 
even  in  foreign  parts  he  never  forgot  his  mother. 
News  came  from  him  at  distant  intervals,  it  is 
true,  yet  with  a  certain  regularity.  He  sent  her 
money  in  the  spring  to  pay  for  the  setting  of  "  the 
lock  o'  praties  that  was  her  whole  dependence," 
and  in  the  autumn  to  provide  for  the  cutting 
and  saving  of  the  turf  It  was  this  autumn 
letter  that  was  missing  in  the  last  year  of  Betty's 
life,  and  as  the  days  passed  by  its  absence  brought 
two  anxious  puckers  that  furrowed  round  her 
patient  eyes. 

Whenever  we  met  I  used  to  ask  her  if  she 
had  had  news  of  Coleman,  and  the  same  answer 
always  came :  "  Sorra  a  word,  asthore.  But 
there'll  be  a  letter  comin'  to  me  from  him  against 
the  Chris-e-mas." 

It  seemed  cruel  to  go  on  asking,  and  as  time 
went  on  and  I  saw  the  puckers  deepen  I  gave 
up  my  query,  but  Betty  noticed  my  omission  at 
once.      "There's    no   letter    still    from    Coleman, 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  43 

daughter  dear,  but  there's  one  acomin'  to  me 
against  the  Chris-e-mas." 

It  was  this  hope — nay,  more  than  hope — this 
firm  conviction,  that  God  would  not  leave  her 
lonesome  at  Christmas,  that  kept  Betty  Dirrane 
alive  during  those  winter  months,  but  the  silence 
on  the  part  of  her  boy  was  telling  on  her  sadly. 
She  was  growing  frailer  and  more  bent,  and, 
though  she  never  complained,  the  exertion  of 
the  long  walk  to  Mass  on  Sundays,  which,  wet 
or  fine,  she  never  missed,  was  paid  for  by  the 
aching  of  her  weary  limbs.  I  met  her  on 
Christmas  Eve  and  noticed  how  she  had  altered. 

*'No,  then,"  she  said,  answering  my  unspoken 
question,  "  I've  no  word  from  Coleman,  but, 
praise  be  to  God,  I'll  be  hearin'  from  him  in 
the  mornin'." 

It  was  not  going  to  be  a  white  Christmas, 
as  you  know  we  seldom  have  lying  snow  in  the 
West,  but  I  remember  that  there  was  frost  in 
the  air.      A   wintry   sun    was    glimmering    upon 


44  THE   BECKOxNING   OF  THE   WAND 

the  waters  of  Galway  Bay  and  lightening  the 
grey  haze  that  enshrouded  the  grey  distance  of 
this  grey  country  where  wall  after  wall  of 
granite  boulders  bound  the  view  on  every  side, 
excepting  towards  the  sea. 

The  chapel  walls,  grey  granite  too,  were  a 
shelter  from  the  strong,  yet  soft  western  wind 
that  blows  in  to  us  persistently  from  Arran. 
Inside  the  church  the  priest  was  seated  at  the 
altar  rails  hearing  confessions,  for  confessionals 
are  unknown  in  our  parish,  and  besides  those 
kneeling  at  the  farther  end  of  the  chapel,  there 
was  a  waiting  group  without.  These  were  chiefly 
men  and  boys,  clad  in  loose  white  "  bawneen " 
jackets,  made  ont  of  locally  woven  homespun 
flannel,  and  grey-blue  or  white  trousers  of  the 
same  material,  cut  on  no  scientific  principle,  and 
patched  on  no  pre-arranged  system.  Betty  and 
a  few  other  women  were  busy  at  the  gate 
putting  on,  before  entering  the  House  of  God, 
the  boots  and   stockings  which  they  had  carried 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  45 

under  their  arms  whilst  they  walked  barefoot  for 
miles  down  the  boreens  and  over  the  boglands 
to  "  make  their  souls "  for  Christmas. 

"It's  to  the  Midnight  Mass  I'll  be,  please 
God,"  said  Betty,  "and  I'll  wait  then  in  Flynn's 
below  till  the  post  comes  in  with  Coleman's 
letter.  God's  good,  asthore !  He'll  never  let 
the  Chris-e-mas  over  me  without  word  from  the 
boy." 

It  was  always  the  same  with  her.  She  hiew 
that  God  would  not  fail  her,  and  surely  such 
faith  would  be  rewarded.  But  in  spite  of  her 
brave  words,  of  her  simple  trust  in  the  goodness 
of  God,  I  saw  more  plainly  than  ever  how  these 
months  of  silent  waiting  had  aged  and  altered 
her.  Could  she  ever  walk  the  two  long  Irish 
miles  that  lay  between  her  house  and  the  chapel 
in  time  to  assist  at  the  so-called  Midnight  Mass 
on  Christmas  day  ?  It  was  a  JMidnight  Mass 
in  name  alone,  for  seven  o'clock  was  the  actual 
hour  at  which  it  began.      But  it  was  night  and 


46  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

dark  night  when  we  left  our  homes  to  assist 
at  it,  and  so  it  kept  the  name  of  what  it  repre- 
sented. 

As  I  rose  to  leave  the  chapel  on  the  24th  I 
saw  Betty  kneeling  in  a  distant  corner.  Her  face 
was  upraised,  her  lips  were  moving.  I  could 
not  hear  the  torrent  of  soft  Gaelic  that  was 
pouring  from  them,  but  I  knew  that  interspersed 
through  her  praise  were  prayers — to  which  for 
her  sake,  I  added  my  mite — for  news  of  the 
absent    Coleman. 

One  by  one  the  men  and  women,  after  going 
to  confession,  finished  their  prayers,  and  passed 
out  of  the  chapel.  Only  Betty  remained  motion- 
less there,  whilst  a  stream  of  newcomers  took  the 
place  of  those  who  had  already  "been  with  the 
priest." 

Before  me  as  I  walked  down  the  path  leading 
to  the  road  was  a  man  I  knew  well  by  sight, 
Mike  Carroll,  a  weak,  good  -  natured  creature, 
everybody's  friend  except  his  own.     At  the  gate 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  47 

a  passer-by  stopped  to  speak  to  him,  and  as  I 
approached  he  was  evidently  trying  to  persuade 
Carroll  to  go  to  Galway  with  him,  probably  to 
join  in  a  Christmas  spree,  but  the  answer  was 
decided  enough. 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Carroll. 

"  Where  are  you  goin',  then  ? "  asked  the 
tempter. 

"  Home,"  responded  Carroll  shortly.  "  An' 
get  along  wid  you.  Don't  you  know  that  I'm 
in  a  state  o'  grace  and  I  don't  want  to  get  quit 
of  it  ? " 

Thank  God,  there  were  very  few  in  the  parish 
that  night  who  were  not  in  a  state  of  grace, 
and  next  morning,  in  the  deep  darkness  that 
precedes  the  dawn,  they  made  their  way  over 
hill  and  stony  valley,  along  rough  boreens  and 
high  roads  scarcely  smoother,  from  their  white- 
walled  yellow  -  thatched  homes  to  the  poor 
chapel,  which  was  the  finest  dwelling  that  they 
could   provide    for    their    Best    Friend.     Yet    in 


48  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE    WAND 

that  bare,  barn-like  building  a  heartier  welcome 
awaited  the  Christ- Child  than  many  a  stately 
Church  can  offer  Him.  They  were  quiet  and 
orderly,  but  so  tightly  packed  together  that, 
looking  down  the  chapel,  it  seemed  like  a  sea 
of  faces,  showing  sickly  yellow  in  the  flickering 
of  the  dip  candles,  which,  stuck  in  the  tin  sconces 
along  the  skirting  board  of  the  walls,  formed  all 
the  illumination  we  could  boast  of  All  through 
the  Mass  there  was  a  continual  murmur  of  prayer, 
but  at  the  Elevation  the  voices  rose,  the  words 
became  articulate,  and,  as  the  priest  held  up  the 
Sacred  Host,  from  four  hundred  lips  came  forth 
the  greeting,  heart-stirring  in  its  intensity  :  **  Caed 
mille  failte ! "  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes  to 
the  Christ-Child  come  again  to  earth. 

We  were  still  sitting  round  the  remains  of  our 
Christmas  turkey,  when  a  message  came  to  me 
from  Betty.  It  was  Gilbert  Dirrane,  a  friend,  or 
as  you  would  say,  a  relation  of  her  late  husband's, 
who  had  brought  it. 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  49 

"  Betty  wants  to  see  you." 

Such  a  call  on  such  a  day  was  very  unusual, 
and  it  occurred  to  me  at  once  that  there  had 
been  no  letter,  and  the  blow,  the  disappointment 
had  been  too  much  for  her. 

**Was  there  no  word  from  Coleman,  then?" 
1  asked. 

'*  Oh,  there  was  word,  fair  and  clean,  yer 
honor,"  replied  Gilbert.  "Thank  God,  'tisn't 
the  heart  but  the  ould  back  on  her  that's  broke, 
the  creature !  'Twas  this  way  it  happened,  not 
to  be  delayin'  yer  honor.  She'd  got  her  letter 
below  in  Flynn's,  an'  I  seen  her  meself  go 
hoppin'  down  the  street  wid  it,  as  proud  as  you 
please,  for  all  the  world  like  a  newly  married  flea ! 
when  —  bad  scran  to  them  gossoons  who'd  been 
slidin'  down  the  toe-path — away  go  the  two  legs 
from  in  under  her,  and  she  kem  a  heavy  fall 
on  the  flags." 

''  Oh,  poor  old  Betty  !  "  I  cried.  "  And  is  she 
badly  hurt?" 


50  THE  BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"Badly  is  it?  Sure  it's  the  life  itself  that's 
knocked  out  of  her !  But  the  whole  thing  that's 
troublin'  her  now  is  Coleman's  letter.  We  were 
for  to  carry  her  into  Flynn's  again,  but  she  gave 
us  no  peace  until  we  left  her  home  in  her  own 
place,  where  she  thought  to  find  the  specs  of  her. 
But — glory  be — weren't  they  in  her  pocket  all 
the  time,  and  smashed  to  smithereens  in  the  fall. 
An'  now  there's  not  a  one  but  yer  honor  that  she'll 
ask  to  read  the  letter  for  her,  an'  she  holdin'  to  it 
all  the  while,  wid  the  dews  o'  death  on  th'  ould 
fingers  of  her." 

I  went,  and  when  I  entered,  the  neighbours 
who  were  in  the  cottage  moved  away  and  left 
us  alone.  Gilbert  Dirrane  was  right.  Even  I 
could  see  that  "the  life  itself  was  knocked  out 
of  her,"  and  the  hand  that  feebly  held  my  own 
was,  as  he  said,  already  growing  cold  and  numb. 
She  gave  me  the  letter,  and  at  a  glance  I  saw 
that  no  village  lad  had  written  the  address, 
scored  over  with  blue  pencil  marks  in  correction 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  51 

of  what  had  been  first  set  down.  Her  eyes, 
bright  and  searching,  the  only  Uving  things 
about  the  rigid  old  body,  were  on  me,  and  under 
pretext  of  seeking  more  light  I  went  to  the 
window.  God  had  indeed  not  left  her  over  the 
Christmas  without  news  of  her  boy.  But  could 
I,  dared  I,  must  T  tell  her  what  the  letter  con- 
tained ?  It  was  short — only  a  few  lines  from  the 
chaplain  of  the  station  whence  Coleman  last  had 
written.  It  told  of  fever,  of  a  lingering  illness, 
borne  bravely,  of  a  young  sailor's  death,  in  a 
foreign  land,  'tis  true,  but  with  a  priest  beside 
him,  who  had  helped  him  into  the  Harbour  over 
the  Bar. 

"What's  the  news,  asthore?  What's  the 
news  that  Coleman's  sent  me  for  the  Chris-e- 
mas  ? " 

The  weak  voice  reached  me  only  in  a  whisper, 
and  for  a  moment  I  could  not  answer. 

Then  I  went  back  to  the  bedside. 

"  It  is  good  news,  Betty,"  I  said.     *'  The  priest 


5S  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

beyond  has  written  to  give  you  news  for  Christmas, 
because  he  says  that  Coleman — that  Coleman  has 
gone  home." 

"  Coleman  comin'  home  !  Sweet  praises  be  to 
the  Great  God  and  to  His  Son,  a  Child  to-day  on 
earth  for  us." 

She  went  off  into  Gaelic,  communing  with 
God  and  thanking  Him.  Her  eyelids  fell, 
leaving  her  face  like  that  of  one  already  dead. 
I  did  not  regret  what  I  had  said.  Truly  it  was 
good  news,  and  soon,  when  she  learnt  the  decep- 
tion of  the  way  I  had  told  it  to  her,  I  knew 
she  would  forgive  me.  But  sooner  than  I 
thought  did  the  real  truth  come  to  her.  The 
Angel  of  Death  had  already  entered  the  cottage, 
and  perhaps  it  was  some  light  from  him  that 
revealed  it  to  her. 

Suddenly  she  opened  her  eyes  widely  and 
looked  up  at  me. 

*' Don't  be  afi-aid,  daughter  dear,"  she  said. 
"It's  goin'  to  God   I   am,  so  tell  me  the  truth. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  53 

Is  it  home  to  Ireland,  or  home  to  God,  that 
Coleman's  gone  ? " 

"Betty  dear,  Betty  dear,  'tis  home  to  God." 

"  Oh,  the  goodness  of  Him.  Oh !  the  good- 
ness to  the  likes  o'  me.  Sweet  praises  be  to 
Him " 

Gilbert  Dirrane's  wife  had  crept  back  into 
the  house,  and  now  she  came  over  to  me. 

"  She  wouldn't  miss  y'r  honor  now,"  she 
whispered,  "if  you'd  be  for  to  go." 

I  knew  what  she  meant,  but  just  then  Betty 
opened  her  eyes  and  spoke  in  the  voice  I  knew 
of  old. 

"  Christ  Himself  is  waitin'  for  me,"  she  said ; 
"Christ  Himself— and  Coleman." 

Then  she  lay  still  and  again  young  Mrs 
Dirrane  motioned  to  me  to  go. 

"  It  came  against  the  Chris-e-mas."  Betty's 
voice  was  a  whisper  now,  clear,  but  so  faint  as 
to  be  hardly  audible.     "Sweet  praises  be " 

I   went   out,   and    away   home,   for    her    own 


54  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

people  could  do  more  now  for  Betty  than  I 
could.  I  was  awestruck,  perhaps,  but  hardly 
saddened,  for  I  knew  that  Betty  and  her  boy 
would  spend  their  Christmas  night  together  —  in 
the  *'  Harbour  over  the  Bar." 

They    told    me,    afterwards,    that    she    never 
spoke  again.     I  had  heard  her  very  last  words. 

"  Sweet  praises  be  to  God." 

Patricia. 


My  dear  Joan, — You  say  that  people  like 
those  I  have  described  to  you  may  have  lived 
in  Ireland  in  the  good  old  days,  but  that,  as  all 
my  friends  are  dead  now,  what  I  say  of  them 
counts  as  nothing  against  the  disagreeables  of 
to-day.  You  are  wrong.  All  my  friends,  I  am 
glad  to  say,  are  not  dead,  and  I  will  tell  you  of 
one  who  is  not  only  still  living,  but  even  now  is 
little  more  than  a  child.  Andy  Connell's  Mary 
does  not  live  at  Ballynaraggit,  it  was  away  in 
the  south  that  I  made  her  acquaintance. 

At  the  place  where  we  were  staying  a  thick 
yew  hedge  skirts  the  home  coverts,  broken  only 
at  long  intervals  by  high  wooden  gates.  The 
gloom  of  the  woods,  low-lying,  and  of  luxuriant 

55 


56  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

growth  as  they  are,  is  in  such  strong  contrast  to 
the  sunny,  heather-clad  bog  outside,  that  when 
we  left  the  shade  of  the  pine-trees,  and  crossed 
out  through  the  gamekeeper's  yard  on  to  the 
open  land  of  the  turf  beyond,  we  were  half 
dazzled  by  the  brilliant  colouring  of  the  scene 
that  lay  before  us.  Every  shade  was  there,  from 
palest  yellow  to  rich  red  -  brown ;  the  purple 
heather;  the  grass,  late  summer  though  it  was, 
still  a  vivid  green  in  places ;  the  silvery  glimmer 
here  and  there  of  pools  and  streamlets,  and  in 
the  far  distance  a  range  of  deep  blue  hills. 

As  soon  as  our  eyes  had  grown  used  to  the 
radiance  of  the  sunshine,  our  attention  was 
caught  by  a  spot  of  colour  in  the  foreground. 
A  child,  pink- clad,  stood  upon  a  felled  tree  that 
spanned  the  first  bog  drain,  her  brown  bare  feet 
clinging  to  the  rough  bark — a  graceful  little  figure, 
swaying  slightly  to  keep  its  balance,  with  arm 
upraised  to  shade  the  sun  off  the  uncovered  head. 

As    the     little     group     of    guns    and     ladies 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  57 

approached,  followed  by  keepers  and  dogs,  the 
child  turned  towards  us,  first  frightened,  then 
half  smiling  though  still  shy. 

Our  host  was  well  known  to  her,  but  his 
guests  were  strangers.  As  her  retreat  was  cut 
off,  she  shrank  back  to  where  her  father,  the 
head  man  amongst  the  keepers,  stood,  and  from 
his  side  she  fearlessly  returned  the  friendly  looks 
that  were  cast  upon  her. 

"Well,  Mary,  are  you  coming  to  show  us 
where  your  daddy  has  all  the  birds  in  waiting  ? " 
said  our  host  as  he  passed  her  by,  and  in  reply 
she  made  the  little  curtsy  that  her  mother  had 
taught  her  always  to  make  in  his  honour. 

She  was  close  to  me  now,  and  I  could  not 
resist  stretching  out  my  hand  and  laying  it  upon 
her  head.  **  What  hair ! "  I  exclaimed  to  my 
companion  as  the  silky  strands  of  gold  slipped 
through  my  fingers.  Then  turning  to  our  host, 
"Fancy  Lady  Emily's  joy  at  finding  this  head," 
I  said,  referring  to  a  fellow  guest  whom  even  the 


58  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

beauty  of  that  morning  had  not  tempted  out. 
"  Why,  she'd  give  its  weight  in  gold  for  such  a 
crop ! " 

Our  host  smiled  in  return,  picturing  perhaps 
the  difference  between  this  bogland  fairy,  with 
Nature's  gift  flowing  free  on  the  breezes,  and  the 
world-worn  woman  who  tried  so  hard  to  make 
up  the  deficiencies  of  her  own  head  by  the  help 
of  the  hairdresser's  art. 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  Mary  ?  You  need  never 
be  in  want  of  money,  for  you  carry  a  gold  mine 
in  your  wig."  He  laughed  again,  but  Andy 
Connell  looked  grave. 

Perhaps  he  was  right  in  thinking  that  such 
jests,  which  she  only  half  understood,  were  not 
good  for  his  little  daughter,  and  he  bade  her  run 
off  quickly  and  go  home  to  her  mother. 

As  she  turned  to  obey  I  bade  her  good-bye. 
"  Good-bye,  Goldylocks,"  I  said,  and  my  greeting 
was  replied  to  by  a  dimple  of  pleasure  in  her 
rosy  cheeks. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  59 

From  what  I  learned  later  from  Mrs  Connell  I 
can  quite  imagine  what  happened  between  then 
and  my  next  meeting  with  little  Goldyloeks. 

On  reaching  home  Mary  told  of  the  meet- 
ing and  what  we  had  said  to  her.  A  look  of 
gratified  pride  sprang  up  in  the  mother's  eyes,  but 
to  Mary  it  seemed  as  though  she,  as  well  as  her 
daddy,  were  not  quite  pleased  at  what  had  passed. 

*' Handsome  is  as  handsome  does,  child,"  was 
all  she  said.  "Don't  forget  that  the  more  God 
Almighty  has  given  to  you,  the  more  He  will 
expect  you  to  give  Him.  Hair  or  no  hair,  all  I 
ask  is  that  you'll  grow  up  to  be  a  good  girl." 

So  the  matter  was  dismissed  and  Mary  went 
on  to  speak  of  other  topics. 

"Mother,  there's  no  smoke  comin'  out  of 
Lukie's  chimney.  Is  it  ill  do  you  think  he  is? 
I  was  looking  for  it  on  the  foot-bridge  when  the 
ladies  and  gentleman  came  by." 

"No  smoke,  is  it?  An'  he  maybe  lyin'  help- 
less, the  creature  I     Run  over,  Maineen,  and  see 


60  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

what's  on  him,  then.  Here,  you  can  take  a  sup 
o'  milk  along  with  you  and  the  full  of  your  bib 
of  new  potaties." 

Thus  burdened  Mary  set  forth  towards  the 
old  man's  dwelling,  which  was  distant  only  half 
a  mile  along  the  bog  edge.  From  afar  the  house 
looked  like  a  heap  of  loose  stones  with  grass 
and  weeds  growing  over  them.  No  window  was 
to  be  seen.  No  chimney  showed  where  the  fire- 
place lay,  the  hole  by  which  the  smoke  escaped 
being  invisible.  A  few  fowls  were  gathered 
round  the  doorway.  Except  for  these  no  sight 
or  sound  of  life  was  there. 

"  Are  you  within,  Lukie  ?  It's  Mary  you  have, 
and  me  mother's  sent  you  a  drop  o'  milk  an'  a 
wee  lock  o'  praties." 

No  answer  was  forthcoming,  and  after  a 
moment  the  child  entered  the  hovel.  On  some 
grimy  sacks,  filled  with  straw  that  covered  a 
broken  wooden  bedstead,  the  old  man  was  lying. 
At  first  Mary  thought  he  was  asleep,  but,  drawing 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  61 

nearer,  a  sound  as  of  low  moaning  fell  upon  her 
ears,  and  she  saw  that,  with  his  face  turned  to  the 
wall,  he  was  crying  silently  and  bitterly.  She  had 
never  seen  a  man  in  tears  before,  and  her  own 
sprang,  in   ready   sympathy,  to   her   eyes. 

*'What  is  it,  Lukie  ? "  she  cried.  "Are  you 
sick?  Are  you  hungry?  Oh,  tell  me  what  I 
can   do   to   make   you   better  ? " 

"  'Tis  Maineen,  is  it  ?  God  bless  you,  alanna, 
and  God  bless  them  that  sent  you  to  a  poor 
old   dying   man." 

Dying !  She  had  heard  the  word  too  often  to 
fear  it,  yet  there  was  awe  in  the  thought  that 
her  old  friend  was  soon  to  be  claimed  by  death. 

"  Is  it  dying  that  makes  you  cry,  Lukie  ? " 
she  asked.  "  I  thought  you  wanted  God  to  take 
you." 

"  It's  dyin',  then,  an'  it  isn't  dyin',"  replied  the 
old  man,  half  comforted.  "For  indeed  I'll  be 
better  off,  please  God,  beyont  than  ever  I  was 
here,  but   oh,    Mary,  me   heart  is  broke  entirely, 


62  THE   BECKONING  OF  THE   WAND 

to  think  that  the  last  o'  the  name  should — 
should  lie  in  a  parish  coffin'." 

And,  the  words  spoken,  so  full  of  shame  to 
one  whose  family  had  been  known  and  respected 
for  generations  unnumbered,  once  more  Luke 
Gibney   lifted  up   his   voice   and   wept. 

Then  Mary,  kneeling  beside  him,  mingled 
her  tears  with  his,  and,  heedless  of  the  potatoes 
that  rolled  away  as  she  loosed  hold  of  her 
apron,  listened,  breathless,  to  his  tale  of  woe, 
sympathised,  wept  again,  and  finally  tried  to 
comfort. 

He  had  always  hoped,  aye,  and  worked  with 
that  end  in  view,  to  lay  by  enough  to  bury  him 
beside  his  forefathers,  in  a  coffin  bought  and  paid 
for.  The  neighbours,  in  charity,  would  carry 
him  to  his  last  resting-place,  and  his  ashes  then 
would  mingle  in  peace  with  those  others  of  his 
family  whom  in  life  or  death  he  had  not  dis- 
graced. But  the  struggle  was  too  hard.  How 
could   he,   old   feeble  and   alone,  keep   body  and 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  63 

soul  together,  or  much  less  save  for  that  future 
event,  which  was  coming  so  certainly  towards 
him.  A  pound,  a  whole  golden  pound,  would 
be  wanted  to  bury  him  as  he  wished,  and  he 
had  scarcely  seen  the  glint  even  of  silver  for 
years. 

Mary,  her  faith  boundless  in  father  and  mother, 
promised  in  their  names  that  Lukie  should  be 
buried  "  dacent " ;  that  his  name  need  never 
figure  on  the  workhouse  list,  but  keen  as  were 
his  shame  and  sorrow,  rending  his  heart  and 
embittering  his  last  days  on  earth,  he  would  not 
listen  to  this  proposal. 

Andy  Council  and  his  wife  were  no  longer 
young  when  the  child  had  been  sent,  a  heavenly 
gift  to  them,  and  well  the  old  man  knew  that 
every  spare  penny  in  the  gamekeeper's  house 
was  wanted  to  assure  the  future  of  their  darling. 

As  Luke  spoke,  an  idea,  bright  and  beautiful, 
yet  bringing  with  it  a  strange  sharp  pang,  rose 
up  in  Mary's  mind. 


64  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"  You  need  never  be  in  want  of  money,  Mary, 
you  have  a  gold  mine  in  your  wig."  And  again, 
"Lady  Emily  would  give  all  she  possesses  for 
such  a  crop  of  hair."  And  lastly,  her  mother's 
words,  "  Hair  or  no  hair,  all  I  ask  is  that  you 
grow  up  to  be  a  good  girl." 

"Lukie,"  whispered  Mary,  and  her  voice  was 
trembling,  "if  I  had  the  money,  twenty  shillings 
of  my  very  own,  not  belonging  to  father  or  to 
mother  but  only  to  me,  would  you  take  that  to 
buy  a  coffin  and  then  would  you  die  content  ?  " 
Even  in  his  sorrow  the  childish  earnestness 
touched  the  old  man. 

"  I  couldn't  refuse  my  little  Maineen.  I'd  take 
it  gladly  if  she  had  it  to  give,"  he  said,  laying  his 
shaking  hand  on  the  child's  brown  clasped  ones. 

Her  sympathy  did  much  to  console  him,  though 
he  thought  the  possession  of  a  sovereign  was  as 
far  from  the  child  as  it  was  from  him  himself, 
and  solely  to  please  her  he  accepted  the  impossible 
offer. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  65 

Even  to  her  mother  Mary  did  not  speak  of 
what  she  meant  to  do.  A  struggle  was  going 
on  in  her  heart,  the  hardest  struggle  her  young 
life  had  ever  known.  On  one  side  was  her  hair, 
the  soft,  warm,  golden  fleece  that  she  loved  as, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  each  one  loves  and 
clings  to  her  own  beauties.  And  on  the  other 
side  was — Lukie. 

She  thought  of  her  head,  cold,  ragged,  shorn, 
and  in  contrast  came  the  words  that  I  had  spoken 
laughingly  in  farewell,  "  Good-bye,  Goldylocks." 
Never  agam  would  any  one  call  her  so,  never 
again,  for  years  and  years  and  years. 

She  was  quiet  that  night,  subdued,  unlike 
herself,  but  her  mother  put  it  down  to  sorrow 
at  old  Luke's  approaching  end,  and  she  thanked 
God  for  giving  her  child  such  a  tender,  loving 
heart.  How  tender,  how  unselfish  even  she  did 
not  yet  know.  She  did  not  see  the  tears  that 
wet  the  pillow,  did  not  hear  the  choking  sobs 
that  shook  the  childish  frame  as  she  and  Andy 


66  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

sat  at  their  supper  below  in  the  kitchen  when 
the  httle  one  had  gone  to  bed. 

At  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  the  postman, 
another  friend  of  Andy  ConnelFs  Mary,  passed  up 
the  avenue  to  the  "great  house."  At  the  darkest 
part  of  the  road,  where  the  undergrowth  is  rank 
and  wild  and  covered  in  by  the  drooping  branches 
of  over-hanging  trees,  a  little  woebegone  figure 
awaited  him.  A  big  pair  of  scissors  hung,  points 
down,  half  open  from  one  hand ;  a  brown  paper 
parcel,  soft,  pressing  inwards  where  the  twine 
passed  round,  was  in  the  other.  Summer  though 
it  was,  a  woollen  tam-o'-shanter  was  dragged 
down  to  the  nape  of  the  neck  behind,  whilst  in 
front  it  rested  almost  on  the  delicately  pencilled 
eyebrows. 

"  Put  it  in  the  bag,  please,  Patsey.  'Tis  a 
parcel  for  her  ladyship,"  and,  pushing  the  packet 
into  the  postman's  hands,  she  darted  off,  and 
was  lost  to  sight  in  the  sheltering  green  of  the 
shrubbery. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  67 

For  a  fcAV  moments  she  continued  running, 
then,  reaching  a  favourite  moss-grown  haunt,  she 
threw  herself  face  downwards  on  the  ground. 
"  Goldylocks  !  "  she  sobbed,  '*  they'll  never  call 
me  that  again !  Oh !  my  hair,  my  hair,  my 
hair." 

The  post-bag  was  opened  in  the  '*  great  house," 
during  the  course  of  a  late  breakfast.  There 
were  no  letters  for  me,  and  Lady  Emily,  who 
was  busy  with  a  pile  of  correspondence,  nodded 
a  careless  acquiescence  when  I  offered  to  undo 
her  parcels  for  her.  The  first  one  I  took  up  was 
soft  and  bulgy,  with  no  stamps  upon  it,  and 
two  wet  raindrops  blotting  the  address. 

I  held  it  up  to  have  the  string  cut  by  our 
host,  who  was  helping  himself  to  a  Scotchman's 
share  of  porridge  at  the  side -table,  and  there, 
with  my  back  turned  to  the  others,  T  opened  it. 
A  scrap  of  paper  lay  on  top,  and  under  it  lay 
masses  upon  masses  of  golden  hair.  Luck  had 
favoured  me.     Fancy  if  Lady  Emily  had  opened 


68  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

the  parcel  before  us  all,  or  even  if  the  others  had 
seen  and  laughed ! 

Quickly  I  slipped  the  paper  covering  out  of 
sight  under  the  table,  but  my  lips  brushed  the 
soft  contents  as  I  hid  it  away. 

"My  Lady,  Madam,"  so  ran  the  note  in 
laboured,  childish  characters,  and  there  were  the 
same  marks  —  but  now  I  knew  they  were  not 
raindrops  —  as  had  blurred  the  address,  "  this 
is  my  hair,  please,  as  I  do  want  money :  a 
gold  pound  to  buy  a  coffin  to  bury  Lukie 
decent,  so  he'll  die  happy. — From  Andy  Connell's 
Mary." 

Again  fortune  was  kind.  Lady  Emily's  letters 
drove  the  parcel  from  her  mind,  and  after  breakfast 
I  was  able  unnoticed  to  take  it  from  its  hiding- 
place  and  carry  it  out  to  where  our  host  was 
waiting  for  me  on  the  lawn.  We  walked  together 
to  the  keeper's  lodge,  and  I  laid  the  parcel 
silently  in  Mrs  Connell's  hands. 

"  May  I  have  a  piece  to  keep,"  I  asked,  after 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  69 

a  moment's  pause,  "to  keep  for  my  own?"  and 
Mrs  Connell,  raising  a  lock  of  gold,  laid  it 
in  my  hand.     Then  she  told  me  all. 

"We  have  brought^ Mary  what  she  asked,"  I 
said  as  she  finished  her  story,  for  before  this  Mary 
had  confided  everything  to  her.  "Please— may 
we 

"  Mary ! " 

Shame-faced,  still  tear-stained,  but  with  the 
ghmmer  of  golden  stubble  on  her  head,  the  child 
came,  answering  her  mother's  call. 

I  held  the  coveted  piece  of  money  out  to  her, 
and  there  was  an  instant's  silence. 

Then  slipping  on  to  the  flagged  floor  beside  the 
child,  I  put  my  arms  about  her. 

"  Oh,     Goldylocks,"     was     all     I     said,    "  oh, 

Goldylocks." 

Patricia. 


VI 

My  dear  Joan, — So  you  have  gone  back  to  your 

exile,  and  you  tell  me  "  there  is  nothing  on  earth 

to  do."     I  wonder  what  you  will  think  when   I 

tell   you   of  the   first   morning   I    spent   after   an 

absence  like  yours.     I  had  been  away  for  nearly 

a  month,  and  the  darkness  when  I  arrived  might 

have  been  supposed  to  keep  my  return  a  secret, 

so  I   sat  down  at  my  writing-table  hoping  for  a 

morning's  peace. 

One  window  of  the  library  looks  out,  as  you 

know,  on  the  terraces  that  lead  to  the  river,  the 

other  is  on  the  same   side   of  the   house  as   the 

hall  door,  and  although  trying  to  persuade  myself 

that   our    return    was    not    yet    publicly   known, 

experience    warned    me    that     before     long    this 

70 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  71 

window  would  frame  the  figure  of  some  not 
especially  welcome  visitor. 

Nor  was  1  mistaken. 

The  crinch-crunch  of  the  gravel  that  first  fell 
faintly  on  my  ears  grew  louder  and  more  decided, 
a  shadow  fell  upon  the  grass,  then  those  sounds 
ceased,  but  the  pause  was  not  a  silent  one.  A 
self-announcing  cough,  deprecating,  yet  insistent, 
fell  with  irritating  regularity  on  my  ears,  and 
when  I  looked  up  a  familiar  figure  greeted  my 
eyes.  Betsy  Magee  was  an  old  pensioner,  nay, 
an  old  friend,  and  with  a  sigh  of  resignation  less 
deep  than  mest  others  would  have  called  up,  I 
raised  the  low  window,  and  the  morning's  levee 
began. 

*'  I'm  glad  to  see  you  up  and  about,  Betty.  I 
hear  you've  had  a  bad  turn  whilst  I  was  aw^ay." 

"  I  had,  then,  glory  be  to  God,  but  still  now 
that  I  am  out  of  it,  I  can't  complain." 

Unconsciously  Betty  was  a  veritable  heroine,  for 
once   the  terrible  accesses  of  pain   that   attacked 


72  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

her   from   time   to   time  were   over,   no   word   of 
complaint  ever  passed  her  hps. 

"  God's  good,"  was  her  repeated  cry,  "  and  why 
would  I  be  talking  when  what  He's  sending  will 
bring  me  all  the  sooner  to  Himself." 

"But  I  was  terrible  lonesome,  jewel  machree, 
when  I  thought  I  was  going,  and  you  from  home. 
Whisper  now,"  and  she  lowered  her  tone  as  she 
drew  still  nearer.  "  You  won't  be  forgettin'  what 
I  told  you,  and  the  bit  of  money  that's  in  the 
weeshy  canister  on  the  dresser." 

"  I  won't  forget,  Betty.  You  know  I've 
promised  you  ever  so  often."  * 

"But,  daughter  dear,  you  might  be  forgettin 
what  you've  promised,  and  you  in  foreign  parts." 

"  I  have  it  written  down,  and  when  you  die, 
wherever  I  am,  I  promise  you'll  be  buried  in  a 
coffin  bought  with  your  own  money,  and  that 
you'll  lie  beside  your  father  and  mother  in  the 
old  churchyard  at  Carriglea,  and  that  the  rest  of 
the  money — eleven    shillings,  isn't    it  ? — that's   in 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  73 

the  canister  will  go  to  the  priest  for  masses  for 
your  soul,  and  you'll  be  prayed  for  on  Sunday 
like  the  best  in  the  parish.  Now,  I  haven't 
forgotten,   have  I  ?  " 

**  Thanks  be  to  God  and  His  Blessed  Mother, 
and  amn't  1  the  great  old  woman  to  have  the 
likes  o'  you  to  do  my  bidding,"  and  the  habitual 
smile  that  only  intense  pain,  or  the  fear  of  being 
buried  in  a  pauper's  grave  ever  banished,  returned 
to  dimple  the  rosy  old  apple  face,  and  she  added 
a  formula  used  many  a  time  before,  "  I  can  die 
content  now  I've  heard  the  words  from  your 
lips." 

Our  conversation  was  put  an  end  to  by  the 
appearance  of  a  second  visitor.  Neal  Cornealy's 
repute  was  none  of  the  fairest.  His  children 
were  the  wildest  and  worst  attendants  at  school 
and  catechism.  One  of  them  had  recently  been 
banished  from  my  class  as  utterly  hopeless,  but 
before  his  expulsion  he  gave  me  an  answer  that 
I  must  tell  you. 


74  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"What  are  sins  of  omission?"  was  the 
question,  and  half-a-dozen  grimy  hands  were  held 
up  to  show  that  their  owners  knew  the  answer. 
Amongst  these  volunteers,  for  a  wonder,  was 
Shawn  Cornealy — he  who  usually  knew  nothing 
when  he  was  asked. 

"  Well,  then,  Shawn,  tell  me,  what  are  sins  of 
omission  ? " 

"  The  sins  I  ought  to  have  committed,  and 
didn't  commit,"  came  the  glib  reply,  accompanied 
by  a  broad  grin  of  delight  at  such  superior 
knowledge. 

"  I  came  to  ask  y'r  honor,  me  lady,  for  a  bit  of 
a  note,"  Neal  Cornealy  explained  after  a  greeting 
that  was  intended  to  be  very  respectful;  "just 
a  bit  of  a  note  for  the  Magistrate,  him  that 
comes  out  on  the  bicycle  from  Ballynaraggit. 
You  might  have  heard  about  a  little  matter  of 
a  harness  for  the  ass  beyond,"  pointing  vaguely 
up  the  avenue  with  his  stick. 

"No,  I  have  heard  nothing  about  it,   I   have 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  75 

been  away  from  home.  Well,  and  who  does  the 
harness  belong  to  ? " 

"  There's  the  whole  thing,"  he  replied,  amuse- 
ment and  perplexity  struggling  for  supremacy  on 
his  face.  "  Bridget,  that's  herself  (his  wife),  me 
lady,  she  bought  a  little  harness  from  a  man 
passing  over  the  road,  and  she  paid  nine  shillin' 
for  it,  and  if  it  was  stole  it  wasn't  she  as  stole  it, 
th'  honest,  decent  woman." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  tell  this  to  the  Resident 
Magistrate  ?  Of  course  I  wouldn't  wish  to  doubt 
you  in  any  way,  but  where  did  Mrs  Cornealy  get 
the  nine  shillings  ?  " 

Neal  changed  his  stick  from  one  hand  to  the 
other,  and  pushed  back  his  hat,  gazing  vacantly 
round  in  search  of  an  inspiration. 

"Y'r  ladyship  disremembers  that  I  had  a  son 
in  Scotland  ? " 

"  And  he  sent  you  the  money  ? " 

"  I  wouldn't  be  after  telling  you  a  lie,  me 
lady.     He  did  not." 


76  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"Then,  where  did  you  get  it?" 

"'Twas  last  HoUandtide,  one  day  I  was  in 
the  town  with  turf,  and  IMr  Brown  comes  to  me. 
'  Cornealy,'  says  he,  '  you  had  a  son  in  Scotland  ? ' 
'  I  have  so,  sir,'  says  I,  '  an'  never  a  word,  good, 
bad,  or  indifferent,  did  I  hear  from  him,  since  the 
day  he  set  foot  in  it.'  'An'  not  a  word  will  you 
be  hearin',  I'm  thinkin','  says  he,  '  for  he's  not  in  it 
now.'  '  Where  is  it  he's  gone  ? '  says  1.  '  'Twould 
be  hard  to  say  that,'  says  he.  So  then  I  knew 
poor  Paddy  was  dead,  for  if  he  wasn't  in  the 
lock-up,  what  else  had  the  lawyers  to  say  to 
him.  '  Did  he  get  the  priest  ? '  says  I.  An',  sure 
enough,  hadn't  he  the  beautiful  letter  from  the 
priest  beyont  that's  been  the  world  o'  comfort 
to  herself  though  she  couldn't  read  a  word  of 
it,  an'  meself  no  better.  '  Thanks  be  to  God,' 
says  I,  *an'  were  there  wages  due  to  him?' 
Well,  not  to  be  delayin'  y'r  ladyship,  'twas  this 
new  compensyation  act  as  had  the  company 
annoyed — twas  killed  workin'  on  the  railway  he 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  77 

was — and  when  Mr  Brown  had  done  his  writin 
'twas  nine  pound  I  got,  and  th'  only  thing  Paddy 
was  ever  worth  to  me,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on 
his  soul." 

"And  your  wife  paid  for  the  harness  out  of 
that  money  ? "  I  asked. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  go  for  to  say  it  was 
the  very  same  shillin's  that  she  paid,"  he  said 
cautiously.  "  INIaybe  'twas,  and  maybe  'twas  not. 
But  the  peelers  have  me  harness  took,  an'  a  bit 
of  a  character  from  y'r  honor  is  the  only  thing 
that  will  serve,  or  111  be  ruinated  entirely." 

I  went  thoughtfully  to  my  writing  -  table  and 
took  up  my  pen. 

"Neal  Cornealy  tells  me  he  is  a  very  honest 
man,"  I  wrote,  "  and  I  hope  that  what  he  says  is 
true." 

Taking  the  note  out  and  reading  it  to  him 
I  asked  : 

"Will  that  do,  Neal?" 

A   grin   overspread   his   features   and  he  took 


78  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

a  greasy  piece  of  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and 
wi-apped  the  missive  in  it.  "Thank  y'r  honor," 
he  said,  "  thank  y'r  honor  kindly.  If  that  doesn't 
fix  the  job  for  me,  may  I  be  shot." 

The  interview  was  drawing  to  a  close,  but 
instead  of  departing  he  came  a  step  nearer. 

**  If  it's  any  little  idea  of  a  wild  duck,  or  a 
few  trout  y'r  ladyship  would  be  wantin'  without 
a  word  to  any  person,  Neal  Cornealy  is  the  man 
to  get  them,  private  like." 

Oh,  keepers  !  Oh,  water  bailiffs  !  Oh,  policemen  ! 

I  was  expecting  another  visitor  that  morning 
for  I  had  both  seen  and  heard  Honor  Gilchreest 
at  Mass,  and  her  appearance  in  the  chapel  usually 
meant  that  we  should  find  her  seated  on  the 
doorstep  waiting  for  a  cup  of  tea  when  our  own 
breakfast  was  over.  Her  chosen  place  in  the 
chapel  was  in  front  of  the  High  Altar,  and  here, 
with  two  snufF  boxes  resting  on  the  bench  before 
her,  she  prayed  heartily  and  aloud.  One  box 
contained  the  snufF  which  was  her  chief  comfort 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  79 

and  only  luxury,  the  other  was  the  receptacle 
of  her  well  worn  rosary  beads.  I  had  seen  her 
that  morning,  her  round  rosy  cheeks  shining  as 
usual  under  the  frilled  border  of  her  white  cap, 
but  when  soon  after  Neal  Cornealy's  departure 
I  was  told  that  she  wanted  to  see  me,  I  found 
her  pale,  and  almost  dishevelled. 

"  Why,  Honor,  what  is  the  matter  ? "  I  asked 
in  surprise. 

"  I've  a  buzzy-wuzzy  in  me  heart,  daughter," 
she  murmured,  sinking  on  to  the  stone  step  at 
my  feet,  "and  a  squeezin'  an'  a  bilious-like." 

"But  what  ails  you,  Honor?  Did  you  get 
weak  in  the  chapel,  or  what?" 

"Not  a  weak,  then,"  she  replied,  and  the 
recital  of  her  woes  was  already  cheering  her. 
"  But  coming  along  the  road  there,  what  came 
after  me  but  one  of  them  mwheelin  coaches  wid 
the  devil's  own  cry  out  of  it,  an'  I'm  not  the 
better  of  the  fright  of  it  since." 

The  hoot  of  a  motor  had  reached  me  faintly 


80  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

as  I  was  returning  from  JNlass,  and,  sympathetic 
as  I  tried  to  be,  I  could  not  repress  a  smile  at 
such  a  delightfully  original  description.  Mwheel, 
or  mael,  means  bald  or  bare,  you  know.  The 
old  Irish  hornless  cow  is  a  mv/heelin  because 
she  is  small  and  bare  of  horns,  so  is  it  also 
applied  to  a  motor,  which  is  lower  than  a 
carriage  and  bare  of  horses  in  front.  A  very 
strong  cup  of  tea  did  much  to  restore  Mrs 
Gilchreest's  serenity,  and  then  came  the  usual 
request  for  a  pair  of  boots. 

"  But,  Honor,  I  gave  you  a  pair  just  before 
I  went  away,  what  has  become  of  them  ? " 

"  I  wouldn't  deceive  your  honor,  so  it's  the 
truth  I  will  be  tellin .  Didn't  the  unders  go 
from  me,  and  there's  nothing  left  of  the  uppers 
savin'  the  button-holes." 

And  after  that  I  don't  think  it  was  pauperis- 
ing to  look  her  out  another  pair.  I  had 
certainly  got  as  much  as  I  gave ! 

A   woman  a   little   over   middle  age  was  my 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  81 

next  visitor.  She  was  a  comparative  stranger 
to  the  place,  only  having  come  into  the  parish 
some  months  previously  as  the  second  wife  of 
an  old  army  pensioner — "a  hardy,  decent  girl" 
(of  fifty-five  at  least) — so  the  neighbours  described 
her — "  and  a  comfortable  wife  for  any  man,  barring 
her  being  bothered."  Bothered  she  certainly  was, 
if  almost  stone  deafness  can  be  so  called,  and  it 
was  this  that  now  was  troubling  her. 

"  The  neighbours  do  be  talkin'  of  your  honor's 
charity,  an'  I  wouldn't  be  troublin'  you  only  I'd 
be  ashamed  to  go  to  the  priest  meself,  an'  me 
not  hearin'  what  he'd  be  sayin',  but  if  your 
ladyship  would  be  speakin'  for  me  there's  not 
a  night  or  morning  but  what  I'd  be  prayin'  for 
you.  Now,  would  you  ask  his  reverence  could 
he  free  me  from  me  marriage  vows,  any  ways  at 
all,  for  I  was  always  an  easy  good-natured  girl, 
an'  I  couldn't  bear  to  be  quarrellin'  with  any 
person,  an'  himself  does  get  terrible  rough  often 
when  I  don't  be  hearin'  what  he  says  ? " 


82  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

The  recollection  of  a  conversation  with 
"  himself  s"  first  partner  came  back  vividly  to 
my  mind.  She  had  come  for  a  "'  rub  for  her 
husband's  rheumatism,"  and  begged  that  it  might 
be  a  strong  one.  "  For  Michael  was  in  the 
horse  -  soldiers,"  she  said,  "  an'  to  hear  the 
language  that  he  uses  to  those  old  bones  of  his, 
well,  it  is  surprising;  'tis  raging  like  a  mad  dog 
he  is,  and  I'd  as  soon  have  a  Mahomet  in  the 
house  any  day,  as  himself,  when  the  pains  is 
on  him.  I'm  not  the  better  of  listening  to  him 
for  a  week." 

After  many  nods  and  gesticulations  of  sympathy 
I  managed  to  din  into  the  poor  dulled  ears  that 
her  best  comfort  was,  that  if  she  could  hear  what 
he  said  she  would  probably  want  to  be  released 
much  more  than  she  did  in  her  deafness,  and 
either  this  new  view  of  the  case  afforded  her 
consolation  or  the  telling  of  her  woes  had 
lightened  their  burden,  for  she  departed  apparently 
much  cheered  by  her  visit. 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  83 

A  man  had  been  waiting  some  time  for  his 
turn  at  the  window.  He  was  young,  not  more 
than  twenty-five,  perhaps  even  less,  and  I  won- 
dered as  I  watched  his  shamefaced  amble  up  the 
avenue  what  his  business  could  be. 

"'Twas  me  brother  John's  wife  that  bid  me 
come  to  y'r  honor,"  he  mumbled,  and  from 
the  awkward  way  in  which  he  twirled  his  hat, 
shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  and  turned 
a  dull  red  under  the  tan  of  his  skin  whilst  his 
eyes  kept  roving  over  my  head  to  the  blank 
wall  of  the  house  above  me,  I  guessed  that 
here  was  another  matrimonial  difficulty. 

"  Well,"  I  asked,  "  what  can  I  do  for  you  ? " 
Then  to  help  him  on  I  made  use  of  guess- 
work. "  Did  I  hear  something  about  your  getting 
settled  ? " 

A  flicker  of  surprise  passed  over  the  im- 
passive countenance. 

"Your  ladyship  has  it,"  he  answered,  "and 
maybe  you  heard  she  died  on  me  ? " 


84  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

*'The  girl  died!  But  how  dreadful!  Who 
was  she,  and  when  did  it  happen?" 

"  Last  week,  me  lady,  and  only  the  day  before 
the  wedding.  Your  ladyship  knew  her  well,"  with 
increased  embarrassment  and  confusion,  "  but  she 
was  not  so  to  say  a  girl.  'Twas  with  the  Widow 
Malone  they'd  made  up  a  match  for  me." 

"  What !  Old  Biddy  Malone  of  Carrauroe ! 
Why,  she  was  sixty-five  at  least ! " 

"  Oh,  she  wasn't  that,  me  lady,  a  fine  woman 
not  much  over  fifty,  and  anyways,  if  it  had  been 
the  will  of  God  that  she  should  die  I  wouldn't 
say  a  word,  but  it  wasn't  the  will  of  God,  but 
just  her  own  contrariness,  not  minding  herself — 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her  soul.  'Twas  last 
Sunday  night  was  a  fortnight  the  match  was 
made,  and  I  was  for  getting  it  fixed  up  on  the 
minute,  for  Mr  Brown  was  only  waiting  for  the 
marriage  to  make  the  place  over  on  me,  and  the 
potatoes  waiting  to  be  set.  But  herself  wouldn't 
set  a  foot  in  the  chapel  till  the  roof  was  mended 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  85 

beyond,  though  she  hadn't  the  money  to  buy  the 
straw.  So  I  gave  her  two  pound — me  brother 
John  paid  me  the  five  that  Anne  brought  him 
when  they  married — and  she  was  to  have  every- 
thing ready  for  me  o'  Tuesday.  Friday,  howsome- 
dever,  the  httle  lad  from  Farrelly's  came  to  our 
house  and  said  Biddy  was  bad  and  had  had  the 
priest,  so  we  went  over,  John  and  meself,  and 
wasn't  the  creature  dead  there  under  the  fine  new 
roof  my  money  had  paid  for.  And  now  those 
spalpeens  of  nephews  of  Biddy  Malone's  have 
got  the  whole  place,  and  they've  money  enough 
to  pay  the  rent  of  the  five  acres,  and  they  took 
off  every  live  beast,  down  to  the  little  lucky 
bantam  hen,  fearing  I'd  be  after  them  for  my 
two  pounds.  I  spoke  civil  like  to  young  Andy 
about  it,  but  what  did  he  do  but  made  a  mock 
of  me ;  and  Mr  Brown  says  I've  no  case  for  the 
law,  for  'twas  a  present  I  gave  to  my  intended 
wife,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her.  But  Anne 
said  if  you'd  speak  to  the  agent  for  me,  me  lady. 


86  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

he'd  see  for  to  get  me  compensated.  There's 
another  girl  beyond  the  town,  with  two  acres 
and  a  bog  garden,  but  she  won't  take  me  with- 
out the  money." 

It  was  a  hard  case,  but  I  promised  to  do  what 
I  could,  and  Bartle  CoiFey  departed  apparently 
satisfied. 

And  so  my  morning  had  sped.  My  visitors 
had  not  been  specially  edifying  that  day,  but 
don't  you  think,  Joan,  that  they  made  the  day 
at  all  events  more  interesting  than  the  empty 
hours  you  complain  of. — Your  loving 

Patricia. 


VII 

My  dear  Joan, — You  ask  me  if  there  is  a 
county  town  in  Ireland  that  has  no  poorhouse. 
I  fear  not,  and  there  are  towns,  too,  which  cannot 
boast  their  county  court-house  which  yet  have 
their  grim  grey  Union  buildings. 

They  are  all  alike,  these  dreary,  sombre  piles, 
some  large,  some  smaller,  but  all  laid  out  on  the 
same  plan.  Some  are  well  kept,  some  are  not. 
All  are  forbidding,  saddening,  depressing,  yes,  and 
irritating  too,  by  the  very  fact  of  their  existence, 
as  well  as  by  the  mismanagement  that  regulates, 
or  rather  fails  to  regulate,  them. 

I  am  afraid  I  must  say  that  I  agree  with  all 
you  say  against  the  workhouse  system  in  general, 

but    here    again,    within   those    grey    walls,   sur- 

87 


88  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

rounded  by  outward  tokens  of  suffering  and  of 
sin,  I  have  known  some  beautiful  souls  —  souls 
that  when  released  must  have  gone  very  soon 
to  see  God's  glory. 

There  was  a  girl  who  lay  for  months  in  a 
corner  bed  of  one  of  the  wards  in  Ballynaraggit 
Union  Infirmary.  Her  faith  was  naive,  almost 
childish,  yet  it  was  from  it  that  she  gained  the 
strength  to  face  death  bravely,  even  gladly. 

She  had  been  born  in  the  workhouse  and  had 
gone  out  as  a  farm  servant,  only  to  come  in  again 
to  die  a  lingering  death  from  consumption.  One 
day  I  could  not  pay  her  my  usual  visit,  and  so 
I  sent  to  Ellen  a  picture  that  I  had  for  her,  a 
softly  coloured  reproduction  of  one  of  Raphael's 
Madonnas. 

She  was  holding  it  in  her  hand  when  next 
I  saw  her  and  her  eyes  sought  mine  eagerly, 
anxiously. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you,"  she  said,   *'  I've  wanted 
to  asked  you  this   long   time,  but    I   was   afraid. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  89 

Then  you  sent  me  this  " — the  picture  — "  an'  I 
took  it  as  a  sign  that  it  was  you  as  could  tell 
me.  When  I  quit  the  school  below  Sister  gave 
me  a  picture  of  the  Blessed  Mother  of  God.  It 
was  straight  she  w^as  in  it,  an'  white,  an'  a  blue 
sash  on  her.  But  in  the  house  beyond  where  I 
was  hired  the  dog  went  an'  ate  it  on  me.  I  was 
terrible  lonesome  after  it,  so  I  was.  'Twas  in 
the  dairy  mostly  I'd  be,  an'  a  fine  airy  place 
it  was,  with  the  milk  o'  ten  cows  in  it,  an'  the 
walls  as  white  as  paper.  An'  I  kep'  thinkin'  if 
I'd  the  likeness  of  the  Mother  o'  God,  wouldn't 
I  have  the  best  of  company  in  it.  So  what  did 
I  do  but  take  a  stick  from  the  fire,  an'  on  the 
wall  I  drew  her  figure.  There  was  red  raddle 
for  the  hair,  an'  I  rubbed  the  blue-bag  on  the 
sash  an'  on  the  cloak.  Oh,  it  wasn't  a  pretty 
picture  " — she  looked  lovingly  at  Raphael's  master- 
piece— "  for,  you  know,  the  likes  o'  me  can't  draw 
pictures  !  Still,  it  put  me  in  mind  of  her.  But 
now,  when  I'm  soon  to  see  the  glory  of  God,  it 


90  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

comes  to  me  that  I  didn't  ought  to  have  drawn 
her  an'  left  her  there  on  a  dairy  wall.  1  wouldn't 
have  done  it  for  no  disrespect,  miss,  only  I  was 
lonesome  without  her,  an'  I  didn't  know  any 
better  that  time.  Do  you  think,  now,  she  sent 
me  this  likeness  as  a  good  sign  or  no  ? " 

I  told  her  I  was  sure  Our  Lady  had  taken 
her  picture  as  no  disrespect,  but,  as  it  had  been 
drawn,  so  it  was  seen  in  heaven. 

"Didn't  you  pray  to  her  oftener  when  you 
had  the  picture,  Ellen  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Indeed,  then,  an'  I  did  that !  Every  time 
1  saw  her  I'd  ask  her  to  pray  for  me.  An'  the 
boys  bringin'  in  the  milk  would  say,  '  So  you've 
the  Mother  of  God  with  you,  Nellie.'  And 
they'd  raise  their  caps  to  her.  Oh,  miss,  dear, 
my  mind's  made  easy  now  to  die,  for  I  wouldn't 
like  to  go  before  the  throne  of  God  Almighty 
with  any  disrespect  on  me  to  the  Mother  of  His 
Son." 

She  raised    my  picture  to  her  lips  and  kissed 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE  WAND  91 

it,  and  so  I  left  her.  Later,  when  she  died,  they 
laid  my  little  Raphael  under  her  folded  hands. 
It  was  almost  her  only  belonging. 

The  cronies  round  the  fire,  talking  together, 
chose  usually  more  mundane  topics  of  conversa- 
tion, and  sometimes  their  remarks  were  very 
amusing.  One  day  that  I  was  there  the  advent 
of  a  new  doctor  was  filhng  their  minds. 

"  Have  you  seen  him,  miss  ? "  asked  one,  and 
without  waiting  for  an  answer  she  went  on : 
"  Isn't  he  the  gay  little  fellow  ?  In  he  comes 
wid  the  big  coat  of  him  buttoned  up  under  his 
chin — the  prettiest  little  chap  ! " 

*'Well,  then,  I'd  not  give  much  for  the  hkes 
of  him  ! "  returned  another.  "  Why,  I  could  just 
take  him  up  in  me  two  hands  for  all  the  world 
like  a  twopenny  doll!  Give  me  the  old  man, 
God  bless  him,  a  fine  stout  fellow,  seventeen 
stone  weight,  and  every  button  on  him  doing 
its  duty." 

There  was  one  missing  that  day  from  amongst 


92  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

the  group,  a  sad  -  eyed  girl  with  a  sad  story. 
My  query  as  to  her  whereabouts  was  quickly 
answered. 

"Didn't  you  hear  her  man  had  come  home  to 
her  ?  Glory  be  to  God  !  'Twas  the  fine  sight  to 
see  the  two  of  them  crying  like  children  when 
he  came  in.  The  fever  it  was  that  had  him 
taken,  away  over  in  England,  and  he  lying 
beyond  queer  in  the  head  them  weeks  and  weeks, 
an'  she  thinkin'  him  dead  an'  buried  no  less." 

It  was  on  Christmas  Day  that  young  Mrs 
Mahaffy  had  been  taken  to  the  workhouse 
infirmary,  and  a  few  days  later  I  heard  her  story. 
Mere  boy  and  girl,  she  and  her  husband  had 
married  on  nothing.  A  cabin  on  the  bog  was 
their  home ;  the  produce  of  half  an  acre  of 
garden,  and  whatever  he  could  earn,  their  income. 
At  harvest  time  he,  with  the  neighbours,  had 
gone  off  to  England,  leaving  his  young  wife 
alone.  October  came,  bringing  back  the  others, 
but    of   Bartle    JNIahafFy   there    were    no    tidings. 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  93 

He  had  not  worked  with  any  of  the  men  from 
the  district,  and  none  could  tell  where  he  had 
gone.  December  succeeded  November,  still 
Bartle  never  came.  The  little  hoard  of  potatoes 
had  given  out ;  the  meal  bag  was  empty.  The 
few  hens  had  ceased  laying,  and  their  mistress, 
worn  out  with  anxiety,  and  more  than  half- 
starved,  fell  ill. 

"  I  was  heartsick  with  waiting,"  she  told  me. 
"For  I  knew  if  Bartle  left  me  lonely  for  the 
Chris-e-mas,  'twas  dead  and  gone  he  was  from 
me  for  ever.  And  just  as  I  thought  to  get  to 
the  chapel,  of  Chris-e-mas  Eve,  I  took  a  weakness, 
and  never  a  stir  was  there  out  of  me.  An'  after 
that  a  great  storm  came,  and  the  old  beams  over 
me  was  shakin',  an'  the  wind  rose  in  under  the 
thatch,  and,  looking  up,  over  the  bed,  'twas 
God's  sky,  an'  no  roof  I  had.  An'  the  senses 
seemed  to  go  from  me,  an'  I  kep'  calling  to 
Bartle,  callin'  to  him  an'  beggin'  God  Almighty 
to  take  me  to  him.     An'  my  throat  got  parched, 


94  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

an'  I,  who  was  shiverin'  all  the  week  past,  was 
burnin'  like  a  fire.  An'  I  prayed  to  Jesus  Christ, 
who  came  on  earth  that  night  for  us,  to  send 
me  some  one  to  give  me  a  drink.  I  thought 
maybe  He  could  spare  one  angel,  for  I  knew 
no  man  or  woman  would  face  the  bog  road  in 
such  a  storm.  An'  as  I  prayed  I  saw  a  flock 
o'  white  doves  comin'  out  o'  the  sky.  They  fell 
on  my  face  an'  on  my  hands,  an'  on  the  lips  of 
me  that  was  burnin',  an'  they  was  the  softest, 
coolest  things  in  life.  God  Almighty  had  heard 
my  prayer,  had  heard  an'  answered  it." 

Yes,  God  Almighty  had  answered  her  prayer. 
He  had  laid  His  hands  in  softest,  coolest  touch 
upon  her,  and  allayed  her  burning  thirst.  For 
what  is  softer  and  cooler  than  God's  beautiful  snow  ? 
On  Christmas  morning  the  neighbours,  going 
to  Mass,  had  seen  the  cottage  almost  roofless  from 
the  storm,  and  under  the  snow  they  had  found 
young  Mrs  Mahafly  sleeping  as  peacefully  as  a 
chHd, 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  95 

There  had  been  many  days  of  pain  and  weak- 
ness afterwards,  during  which  I  had  visited  her 
in  the  grey  house,  but  at  last  joy  as  well  as 
health  had  come  back  to  her — Bartle  had  returned. 
The  cabin  on  the  bog  was  roofed  again  by  kindly 
neighbours,  and  the  little  home  that  had  been 
overshaded  by  tragedy  for  so  many  months  saw 
happiness  once  more. 

It  was  on  the  day  that  I  heard  of  Bartle 
Mahaffy's  return  that,  on  my  way  out,  I  met 
one  of  the  few  able-bodied  pauper  women.  She 
was  the  lowest  of  types — degraded,  repulsive.  It 
was  an  absolute  impossibility  to  her  to  keep  from 
drink,  and  her  intemperate  habits  had  ruined  her 
little  home,  and  brought  her  to  her  present  plight, 
making  her,  even  still,  obdurate  to  the  nuns'  per- 
suasions of  reform. 

"  Has  your  honor  been  in  the  school  ? "  she 
asked  me. 

"  Not  to-day,  Mrs  Fogarty,"  I  answered ;  "  but 
I  saw  your  boys  there  at  Christmas." 


96  THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

"Pat  is  after  makin'  his  First  Communion, 
miss,"  she  said  proudly. 

I  knew  the  nuns  had  hoped  that  that  day- 
would  have  seen  the  mother  reconciled  to  God ; 
but  there  had  been  so  many  broken  promises  on 
the  subject,  that  my  faith  in  Mrs  Fogarty  was 
weak. 

"  Were  you  with  him  at  the  altar  ? "  I  asked. 

She  half  turned  from  me,  twisting  her  blue- 
check  apron  in  her  fingers. 

"I  —  I  didn't  get  for  to  go,"  she  muttered. 
Then  brightened  a  little.  "  But  says  I  to  Patsey, 
'  Don't  you  stop  to  talk  nor  to  chat  with  any 
person,  but  come  straight  to  your  mother,  for 
the  first  kiss  of  your  lips,  after  you  receive  the 
Son  of  God,  must  be  for  her.'     And  he  came." 

An  unknown  something  lighted  up  those  poor, 
debased  eyes.  All  her  face  was  working,  and  as 
she  moved  away  from  me,  I  heard  her  murmur : 

"Oh,  the  innocent  lips  of  him — the  innocent, 
blessed  lips ! " 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  97 

And,  in  spite  of  all,  there  was  the  leaven. 
That  act,  those  words,  showed  the  faith  that 
gives  hope. 

The  men's  ward  is  empty  to  me  now,  but 
time  was  when  my  greatest  friend  in  the  grey 
house  lay  there. 

Steenie  was  born  in  the  workhouse — a  puny, 
sickly  baby,  who  cost  his  mother  her  life,  yet 
lived  himself  through  all  the  rough  handling,  the 
careless  kindness  that  falls  to  an  infant  pauper's 
lot.  The  nuns  had  come  to  the  Union  by  the 
time  that  Steenie  had  arrived  at  school-going  age, 
and  with  them,  for  a  few  years,  he  received  the 
only  tenderness  that  his  young  life  ever  knew. 
At  twelve  years  old  his  comrades  were  hired  out 
to  farmers  in  the  district,  but  no  one  wanted  so 
sickly  a  boy  as  Steenie,  and  for  three  years  longer 
he  remained  under  the  influence  of  the  nuns. 
Then,  humanly  speaking,  came  the  great  day  in 
the  boy's  life.  Some  one,  kind  and  rich,  proposed 
to  send  half  a   dozen   lads  to  Canada,  and  start 


98  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

them  in  life  there.  Steenie  was  among  the 
chosen  band ;  but  perhaps  those  who  have  never 
known  the  lot  of  a  workhouse  child  hardly  realise 
all  that  such  a  project  meant  to  him.  A  home 
— for  the  boys  were  to  be  adopted  by  those  to 
whom  they  were  sent  —  a  place  on  the  great 
ladder  of  possibilities :  a  clean  wash-out  of  the 
poorhouse  stain. 

There  was  one  week  of  perfect  happiness  and 
pleasure,  lived  in  the  anticipation  of  the  future, 
in  Steenie's  life. 

Then  came  the  day  of  departure.  But  where 
was  Steenie  ?  Not  amongst  the  band  of  emigrants, 
not  in  his  old  place  in  the  workhouse  school,  but 
across  the  yard,  in  the  grim,  solitary  building  that 
stands  half  empty,  yet  ever  needed  from  year's 
end  to  year's  end.  Unconscious  of  all  around 
him,  Steenie  lay  at  death's  door,  struck  down 
by  smallpox,  in  the  fever  hospital.  But  the  dark 
portals  beyond,  that  opened  for  those  who  fain 
would  have  stayed  without,  were  closed  to  him. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  99 

The  fever  passed,  leaving  him  worn-out,  but 
conscious ;  and  at  once  his  mind  reverted  to  the 
rosy  future  prospects  that  before  his  illness  had 
enthralled  him.  Then  as  he  lay,  too  weak  to 
move,  with  head  and  eyes  still  tightly  bound. 
Sister  JVIary  went  to  him. 

How  she  told  him,  I  know  not ;  what  she  said, 
when  she  broke  to  him  that  the  life  he  longed  for 
was  never  to  be  his,  that  the  small-pox  demon  had 
spared  his  life  only  to  take  his  sight,  to  leave 
him — blind. 

If,  in  the  first  moment  of  agony  and  despair 
he  murmured  against  his  fate  no  one  knows,  for 
to  the  Sister  those  were  sacred  moments. 

"Yes,  it  was  I  who  told  him,"  she  said  to  me. 
''  Steenie  is  more  than  a  hero,  he  is  a  saint." 

It  was  after  this  that  I  learnt  to  know  him. 
Sitting  by  the  fire,  he  was  always  resigned,  always 
interested  in  what  he  was  told.  Seemingly  he 
was  even  happy,  sitting  there,  saying  the  rosary, 
and  keeping  the  peace.      The    other   men  were 


100         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

good  to  him  in  their  own  rough  way.  His  right 
to  the  warmest  corner,  to  the  least  uncomfortable 
chair,  was  never  questioned.  But  after  a  time  he 
claimed  these  privileges  less  often.  He  caught 
cold  and  had  not  strength  to  throw  off  the  cough 
that  shook  and  exhausted  him.  He  knew  now 
that  death  was  drawing  near  again,  and  I  think 
he  must  have  welcomed  its  coming.  When  at 
last  the  end  was  at  hand  it  was  a  new  priest 
who  came  to  attend  him,  one  who  had  heard  his 
story,  but  who  was  a  stranger  to  Steenie. 

*'  It  was  such  a  pitiful  story,"  he  told  me  after- 
wards, *'a  life  of  such  unreheved  gloom,  that  it 
seemed  impossible  for  any  one  to  look  upon  it 
as  a  great  gift  of  God's  kindness.  With  these 
thoughts — God  forgive  me  for  them — in  my  mind 
I  approached  that  bedside,  where  I  learned  a 
lesson  I  can  never  possibly  forget.  *  You  know, 
my  poor  lad,'  I  began  awkwardly  enough,  *you 
know  that  God  is  going  soon  to  take  you  to 
Himself,  and — and  you  must  try  to   love   Him.' 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  101 

The  sightless  eyes  were  turned  on  me,  and 
I  hesitated  as  I  thought  of  the  past.  But  I 
needed  to  say  no  more.  Surprise  and  reproach 
were  mingled  in  the  answer  that  reached  me 
faintly  :  '  Love  Him  ! '  Steenie  said,  *  why  wouldn't 
I  love  Him  ?     Didn't  He  die  for  me  ? '  " 

He  never  spoke  again.  They  left  him  in 
peace  after  he  had  received  the  Holy  Viaticum. 
And  half  an  hour  later  the  Sister  drew  the  sheet 
reverently  over  his  face.     Blind  Steenie  was  dead. 

These,  dear  Joan,  are  some  of  the  lights  which 
lighten  the  otherwise  overpowering  shadows  of 
workhouse  life. — Your  loving 

Patricia. 


VIII 

My  dear  Joan,  ^ — You  wonder  that  I  do  not 
claim  to  having  a  miracle  to  tell  you  about.  A 
miracle !  well,  perhaps  not  a  miracle,  but  I  can 
tell  you  of  the  faith  of  which  miracles  are  the 
crown. 

I  did  not  often  see  Honor  Guinty,  for  she 
lived  so  far  away,  not  in  the  parish  of  Bally- 
naraggit  at  all,  but  away  beyond  Dereen. 

In  the  good  old  days  when  such  things 
were,  her  father  had  been  our  great  grand- 
mother's postillion,  otherwise  we  should  hardly 
have  known  of  her  existence,  for  her  cottage 
stands  quite  beyond  the  circle  of  our  usual 
rounds.     For  the  sake  of  old  lang   syne  she  was 

on   our  Christmas  list,  and   if  any   of  us   passed 

102 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  103 

her  way,  we  sometimes  stopped  to  speak  to  her, 
but  it  was  only  a  few  years  ago  that  my  acquaint- 
ance with  her  ripened  into  friendship.  Her  story 
came  to  me  in  scraps,  but,  put  together,  I  think 
you  will  agree  that  there  is  "leaven"  in  it. 

When  first  I  remember  her,  and  for  long 
after,  she  had  a  little  old  brother  living  with  her. 
He  was  half  crippled,  the  youngest,  weakest,  and 
last  of  a  band  of  boys.  It  was  when  he  died  that 
I  first  heard  something  of  Honor's  past. 

I  was  paying  her  a  visit  of  condolence,  and, 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  of  her  tiny  two-roomed 
dwelling,  she  told  me  of  the  others,  of  Brian,  and 
Christie,  and  Mosheen,  fine  men  all,  who  had  gone 
away  and  died  years  ago  in  America. 

"  Had  you  no  sister  ?  "  I  asked  in  all  innocence, 
and  it  was  only  a  look,  come  and  gone  in  an 
instant,  on  the  old  face,  that  showed  me  I  had 
unwittingly  touched  an  unfortunate  topic. 

"I  had,  then,  daughter,"  she  answered,  and 
then    stopped    abruptly.     Her    thoughts    had    so 


104         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

evidently  flown  back  to  the  time,  long  years  ago, 
when  she  and  the  immentioned  sister  had  been 
girls  together,  where  to-day  she  sat  a  lonely  old 
woman,  that  1  said  no  more. 

"  I  had,  then,"  she  repeated,  after  a  moment's 
silence,    "an'   she  the  prettiest  girl  from   this  to 

Ballynaraggit.      God "    I    thought  —  fancied 

perhaps — that  there  was  a  moment's  hesitation,  and 
I  somehow  expected  the  formula,  beautiful  in  itself, 
but  sometimes  used  mechanically,  "  God  forgive 
her,"  but  instead  came  the  prayer,  heartfelt  and 
earnest,  "  God  bless  her."  And  my  curiosity  was 
aroused.  I  suppose  I  showed  it  in  my  face,  for 
of  her  own  accord  Honor  went  on :  "It  was 
your  grandmother  herself,  may  God  give  glory  to 
her  soul,  that  could  have  told  you  of  Catty 
Guinty,  for  there  was  great  talk  of  her  'twixt 
this  and  the  town  the  onct,  an'  this  day  I'd  dare 
to  say  there's  not  one  in  the  parish  remembering 
her  name,  barrin'  meself. 

"  This  place  was  too  dull  for  a  pretty  one  like 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  105 

herself,  an'  she  went  away  to  service,  but  your 
grandfather,  God  be  good  to  him,  brought  home 
a  soldier  servant  to  the  town,  and — and — him  and 
me  was  for  getting  married.  Maybe  he  wasn't 
much  of  a  chap,  only  the  world  never  held  another 
for  me,  only  him. 

"Then  Catty  came  home,  for  the  boys  were 
in  it  that  time,  and  with  me  gone  there'd  have 
been  sorra'  one  to  keep  house,  and — 'twas  she 
that  was  the  gay  gartlaher  and  me  but  a  homely 
piece — and  so  she  and  Tom  went  off  and  got 
married  one  morning.  The  neighbours  had  the 
talk  of  the  world  about  it.  They  thought, 
God  help  them,  to  cheer  me  wid  saying  this  thing 
and  that,  an'  me  with  a  hurt  within  me  that 
no  pity  could  heal,  without  it  was  the  pity  of 
Christ." 

"  And  did  you,  could  you  forgive  him  ? "  1 
asked.  Her  plain  bald  statement  brought  it  all 
before  me  far  better  than  any  flowery  explanation 
could  have  done. 


106         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"  Daughter,  I  loved  him." 

I  was  young  then,  and  the  imphed  reproach 
was  lost  upon  me. 

"  And  her  ?  "  I  persisted  tactlessly. 

"  Forgive  her  !  "  she  repeated.  "  Wasn't  it 
God's  will,  asthore?  And  isn't  it  the  grand 
thought  entirely  that  the  cross  of  Christ  Himself 
was  less  weighty  for  the  trouble  He  put  on  me  ? " 

Then  she  told  me  that  when  he  married,  the 
run  -  away  bridegroom  had  given  up  my  grand- 
father's service,  and  for  all  the  long,  long  years 
that  had  passed  since  then,  nothing  had  been 
heard  of  him  and  of  his  wife.  Honor  did  not 
even  know  if  they  were  alive  or  dead,  and  so,  she 
told  me,  she  said  "  God  bless  them,"  for  that  was 
what  would  serve  them  best  either  here  or 
hereafter. 

A  long  winter  passed  before  I  saw  Honor 
again,  and  one  spring  day,  riding  past  her  lane 
end  my  heart  smote  me,  at  first  slightly,  for  my 
neglect,    but  when  I  turned  down   the   bye-way, 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  107 

meaning  to  rectify  my  omission,  with  a  pang  of 
real  regret.  Before  me,  blocking  up  the  narrow 
pass  in  front  of  the  cottage,  T  saw  the  poor  man's 
van,  that  pecuhar,  dreaded  vehicle  which  since 
the  evil  day  that  workhouses  were  started  in 
Ireland  had  carried  unwilling,  and  too  often, 
unclean  paupers  to  the  hated  grey  house  that 
stands  on  the  outskirts  of  Ballynaraggit.  At  once 
I  concluded  that  poor  old  Honor  was  going  to 
spend  her  last  days  in  the  Union,  and  knowing 
how  unwelcome  any  witness  to  her  departure 
would  be,  I  turned  my  back  on  the  black  box, 
with  its  ancient  horse  and  still  more  ancient 
driver,  who  clung  ape-like  to  his  tiny  seat  upon 
the  roof,  and  retraced  my  steps  to  the  high-way, 
reproaching  myself  bitterly  as  I  went  for  having 
done  nothing  since  Christmas  for  my  old  friend. 
A  week  later  at  Ballynaraggit  workhouse  I  found 
out  my  mistake.  I  asked  for  Honor.  She  was 
not  there.  I  asked  the  reason  of  the  van's  visit 
to   her   house,  and   learnt    that    it    had   taken   a 


108         THE   BECKONING  OF  THE   WAND 

passenger  from,  not  to,  the  Union.  Catty  had 
come  back.  Not  the  selfish  beauty  of  long  ago, 
but  an  old,  crippled,  fretful  woman. 

I  think  Honor's  surmise  must  have  been  right. 
The  soldier  cannot  have  been  "much  of  a  chap," 
anyhow  the  end  of  Catty's  life  in  England  was 
the  poorhouse,  and  thence  she  had  been  sent  back 
to  her  native  Union.  Had  I  not  believed  in 
Honor's  forgiveness  of  the  past,  it  would  have 
been  proved  to  me  now  many  times  over,  in  the 
way  she  took  her  sister  home,  and  tended  her. 
For,  although  Catty  was  some  years  the  younger, 
she  looked  and  seemed  much  older  than  Honor. 
Her  life  had  evidently  been  the  hardest,  after 
all;  and  now,  when  Honor  was  still  able  to  keep 
her  little  house  going.  Catty  could  only  sit  by 
the  fire  and  grumble. 

And  that  she  did.  Poor  old  soul,  I  suppose  it 
is  always  harder  to  be  forgiven  than  to  forgive. 

Several  years  went  by,  and  the  two  old  sisters 
lived   on  together,  then  after  one  winter  Honor 


f 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  109 

was  again  left  alone.  Catty  can  never  have  been 
a  cheerful  companion,  but  Honor  had  borne  with 
her,  and  now  that  she  was  gone  she  missed  her 
sadly. 

The  two  extra  shillings  that  no  longer  came 
in  outdoor  relief  were  a  loss,  even  with  a  mouth 
less  to  feed,  and  when  I  saw  Honor  in  the  spring- 
time, she  was  praying  hard  that  God  would  send 
some  one  who  would  keep  her  company  in  her 
old  age,  and  help  her  to  dig  the  little  garden, 
or  cut  the  turf  from  the  bank  against  which  the 
house  was  almost  built,  according  to  the  season. 

She  never  doubted  but  that  in  God's  good 
time  her  prayers  would  be  heard  and  answered, 
but  neither  she  as  she  spoke,  nor  I  as  I  listened, 
was  aware  that  something  had  already  happened, 
which,  miracle  or  no  miracle,  was  destined  to  bring 
about  what  she  prayed  for. 

Her  house,  as  you  know,  is  made  principally  of 
mud,  floor  and  walls  alike,  although  there  are  stones 
here   and    there    to    strengthen  the  latter.     The 


110  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

kitchen  gets  a  little  light  from  the  ever  open  door, 
but  the  inner  room  depends  on  a  piece  of  glass 
some  twelve  inches  square,  and  fixed  immovably, 
for  all  its  lighting.  Honor,  I  am  sure,  swept  and 
dusted  her  house  occasionally,  for  outwardly  all 
was  as  clean  as  circumstances  allowed,  but  it  was 
i-eally  no  wonder  that  a  little  green  plant  should 
sprout  up  in  one  corner,  and  grow  there  unseen 
until  its  topmost  leaves  reached  the  table. 

On  this  table— the  only  furniture  except  a 
bed  and  a  box  that  the  room  contains — stands  a 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  Once  it  was  a 
white  figure  of  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes,  now  it  is 
smoke-grimed  to  brown  in  spite  of  the  protecting 
veil  of  net  that  always  hangs  over  it.  Two  very 
hideous  vases  stand  beside  the  statue,  and  there 
are  holy  pictures,  once  of  gaudy  colouring,  but 
dingy  now,  hanging  in  frames  against  the  mud 
wall.  This  is  Honor's  altar,  and  here,  after  Catty's 
death,  when  she  was  alone,  and  too  feeble  to  walk 
the  four  long  miles  to  Mass  at  Dereen  Chapel, 


THE    BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  111 

she  spent  most  of  her  leisure  moments.  I  never 
remember  seeing  flowers  in  the  vases,  so  probably 
Honor  did  not  think  much  of  decorations,  but 
when  of  its  own  accord,  a  pretty  green  plant  grew 
up  out  of  the  mud  floor,  or  rather  from  a  crack 
between  the  wall  and  the  ground,  and  spread 
itself  out  at  Our  Lady's  feet,  she  left  it  there, 
and  even  took  a  certain  pride  in  its  growth. 

At  the  feet  of  the  statue  the  single  stalk 
divided  into  five  parts,  but  these,  having  nothing 
to  support  them,  twined  together,  growing  up 
behind  the  statue,  until  they  rested  on  the  veiled 
head  of  Our  Lady's  figure.  I  saw  it  there.  The 
stalks  were  hard  and  fibrous,  the  principal  one 
seemed  to  be  of  woody  growth,  but  the  leaves 
were  soft  and  very  green,  with  tiny  prickles  round 
the  indented  edges,  that  showed  the  thistly  nature 
of  the  plant. 

Whether  consciously  or  unconsciously  Honor 
had  helped  the  direction  of  its  growth,  I  cannot 
say.     I  can  only  tell  you  what  I  saw  myself     The 


112         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

foot-square  window  let  in  its  little  share  of  sun- 
shine exactly  opposite  the  altar,  and  yet  the  plant 
grew  behind  the  statue  and  away  from  the  light. 

I  saw  it  in  May,  and  as  the  days  passed  by 
it  began  to  be  whispered  around  that  there  was 
something  miraculous  in  its  growth.  How  the 
report  arose  I  do  not  know,  but  the  neighbours 
first,  and  then  people  from  a  distance,  began  to 
visit  Honor,  and  some  amongst  them,  after  pray- 
ing before  the  statue,  asked  permission  to  light 
a  candle  and  leave  it  behind  them,  a  silent 
prayer  that  flickered  upwards,  and  surely  reached 
to  Heaven  at  last. 

The  little  room,  close  and  airless  at  the  best 
of  times,  grew  unbearably  hot  in  June  and  July 
when  these  candles  increased  in  number,  and 
the  plant,  showing  perhaps  its  ordinary  nature, 
began  to  droop,  and  the  leaves  shrivelled  up  and 
dropped  off. 

Honor's  prayer  for  company  had  indeed  been 
answered,   and   although   it  was   not  in  the  way 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  113 

that  she  had  intended,  still  many,  nay  most  of 
her  visitors,  left  her  something  in  the  shape  of 
money,  which,  all  put  together,  made  a  little 
nest  egg  that  would  help  to  feed  a  permanent 
companion,  if  such  a  one  presented  herself. 

I  did  not  go  to  Dereen  during  the  summer 
months.  Honor  now  had  little  need  for  visits, 
but  I  heard  in  August  that  a  sixth  stalk  had 
made  its  appearance,  this  one  growing  in  front 
of  the  statue  and  reaching  to  Our  Lady's  hands. 

Then  came  the  part  that  to  me  seemed 
nearest  to  a  miracle. 

The  plant,  common  weed  of  natural  growth 
though  it  may  have  been,  was  to  Honor  in 
all  sincerity  a  Heaven  -  sent  companion  and 
messenger,  and  the  prayers  that  she  and  many 
others  sent  up  to  God  before  that  little  altar 
were  heartfelt  and  true.  But  of  the  numbers  who 
came  to  see  it  some  were  urged  by  curiosity 
alone,  and  as  the  popularity  of  the  plant  in- 
creased,  so  too  did   the   takings   of  the  pubhcan 


114  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

at  the  cross  roads,  a  lonely  spot  where  *  bona 
fide  travellers'  could  refresh  themselves  undis- 
turbed on  Sunday  afternoons. 

The  priest  at  Dereen  spoke  more  than  once 
of  the  abuse  of  what  might  have  been  a  good 
thing,  but  even  if  his  own  parishioners  heeded 
his  words,  those  who  transgressed  came,  for  the 
most  part,  from  places  beyond  his  influence. 

I  do  not  know  how  he  did  it.  I  do  not 
know  if  he  regretted  having  to  hurt  the  poor 
old  woman  so  sadly.  I  only  know  that,  words 
having  no  effect,  he  was  obliged  to  have 
recourse  to  deeds. 

He  went  to  the  cottage,  pulled  up  the  plant, 
and,  green  leaves  and  brown  stalks,  burnt  it  on 
Honor's  hearth  with  the  turf-sods  she  had  laid 
down  to  cook  her  potato-dinner. 

If  she  had  thought  only,  or  even  most,  of  the 
money  it  brought  her,  she  could  not  have  borne 
the  loss  of  her  plant  as  she  did. 

"God  sent  it,   daughter,"  she   told  me,   "and 


THE   BECKONING  OF  THE   WAND         115 

His  own  priest  took  it  from  me.  Sure,  I  couldn't 
have  a  surer  sign  but  that  He'd  done  His  will 
with  it." 

And,  going  home,  I  thought  to  myself  that 
whatever  the  plant  may  have  been,  here  was 
faith  that  in  these  days  of  carelessness  came 
little  if  at  all  short  of  a  miracle.  I  have  not 
heard  of  Honor's  death,  so  I  suppose  that  she  is 
still  living.  The  last  time  I  saw  her  she  had 
found  a  companion,  "  a  lone  dissolute  (desolate !) 
woman  like  meself,"  she  said,  and  the  little  hoard, 
brought  to  her  by  her  much  loved  plant,  had 
been  enough  up  to  that  to  supplement  their 
weekly  pittance.  All  they  need  is  a  small  sum  in 
hand  twice  a  year,  once  for  potato-setting,  once 
for  turf-cutting,  and  as  long  as  the  priest  whose 
duty  made  him  burn  the  thistle  is  in  the  parish, 
I  know  that  Honor  will  never  go  without  those 
sums. — Your  loving 

Patricia. 


IX 

My  dear  Joan, — Although  I  must  and  do  admit 
that  as  a  nation  we  are  less  truthful  than  the 
English,  I  most  emphatically  deny  that  this 
unpardonable  and  maddening  failing  arises  from 
any  innate  national  depravity.  The  force  of 
circumstance  began  it,  and  habit  has  now, 
unfortunately,  grown  to  be  second  nature. 

Do  you  remember  that  for  six  centuries — 
that  is  for  some  eighteen  generations — our  only 
means  often  of  saving  our  lives,  always  of  saving 
our  belongings,  was  either  in  word  or  in  act  to 
lie?  It  would,  of  course,  have  been  far  nobler 
to  sacrifice  life  and  property  to  truth,  and 
many    of   our    forefathers    did    so    for    the    sake 

of    religious    truth,    but   human   nature   is   weak, 

116 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  117 

and  we  succumbed  to  the  temptation  of  saving 
ourselves  by  falsehoods.  Now  we  are  reaping 
the  punishment  of  our  weakness  by  having 
to  submit  to  the  stigma  on  our  national  name, 
and  not  being  believed  when  we  do  speak  the 
truth. 

Don't  think  that  I  am  a  champion  of  false- 
hood, but  I  wonder  sometimes  when  I  look  on 
the  impassive  countenances  of  the  Georges  and 
the  'Arries,  who  crawl  along  the  country  roads 
in  parts  of  England,  seated  on  their  heavy  farm 
carts  behind  their  heavy  farm  horses,  if  they 
were  able  to  turn  their  thoughts  from  beer,  and 
think  of  an  untruth  quickly  enough  for  it  to 
be  of  any  use  to  them,  whether  English  love  of 
truth  or  human  love  of  gain  would  be  the 
stronger.  Seriously,  however,  I  own  that  the 
love  of  truth  for  which  England  is  famous  does 
not  yet  exist  in  Ireland ;  but,  remember,  it  is 
only  sixty-eight  years  since  we  were  given 
Catholic   Emancipation,   and    we   can   only   hope 


118         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

that  in  the  course  of  five  centuries  more,  the 
truth  that  has  been  forced  out  of  us  will  return. 
As  yet  I  fear  the  value  of  truth  is  not 
appreciated.  Only  lately  a  man  was  asked  why 
he  told  such  lies,  and  he  answered  quite  openly, 
"  Isn't  it  hard  enough  for  the  likes  of  us  to  live 
an'  we  lying?  Where  would  we  be  at  all  if  we 
told  the  truth  ? "  I  own,  however,  that  besides 
the  political  inducement  to  lying,  which  is  now 
no  more,  we  have  two  characteristics  which 
impede  our  reform  in  this  direction. 

One  is  the  dislike,  unless  roused  to  anger, 
that  the  average  Irishman  has  of  saying  an 
unpleasant  thing,  and  the  other  is  the  vivid 
imagination  with  which  so  many  of  us  are 
gifted — or  should  I  say  afflicted  ? 

I  am  not  speaking  of  the  educated  classes, 
of  the  writers  and  song  makers,  but  of  the 
uneducated,  of  those  who,  maybe  cannot  even 
read  or  write.  I  do  not  know  whether  their 
perception  of  the  unseen  in  reUgious  matters  is 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  119 

the  cause  or  the  effect  of  this  imagination,  but  I 
think  that  one  must  have  to  say  to  the  other. 
You  know  old  Maureen  Costello  —  the  woman 
who  enquired  after  your  incubator  as  **the  box 
where  you  make  chickens  by  machinery  with  the 
help  of  God."  You  would  never  think  that 
she  was  endowed  with  a  vivid  imagination,  but 
she  is. 

She  told  me — perhaps  it  is  not  true,  for  alas ! 
I  have  come  to  be  sceptical  as  to  much  that 
I  hear  —  she  told  me  that  no  one  else  had  ever 
heard  this  story,  which  illustrates  what  I  mean 
better  than  any  words  of  mine  could  do, 
although  I  fear  I  can  give  but  a  feeble  render- 
ing of  her  most  graphic  narrative. 

I  had  taken  refuge  from  a  storm  one  day 
in  her  cottage,  and  seated  on  two  creepy  stools 
before  the  glowing  turf  that  burnt  upon  the 
hearth,  we  began  to  talk  of  her  neighbours,  the 
Lees,  and  I  think  as  she  spoke  she  almost 
forgot  that  I  was  there. 


120         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"  They  were  kind  neighbours  to  me  always, 
were  the  Lees,"  she  said ;  "  kind  ever  to  the 
lone  old  woman  who  never  had  man  or  child 
of  her  own.  And  the  reason  for  that  same 
God  knows  —  and  Mark  Lee  —  never  another. 
But  Mary  was  good  to  me  too,  and  I  don't 
begrudge  her  what  her  money  got  her.  She's 
had  him  these  twenty  years  and  more,  but  I 
know  wxll  'twas  never  Mark's  heart  that  chose 
her.  Maybe  that's  why  I  can  love  the  boy 
that's  her's — and  his. 

"  I  never  had  but  the  one  secret  all  me  life 
long,  now  I  have  another,  an'  I'll  keep  it  too,  God 
willing,  for  it's  no  manner  of  use  to  go  talking  of 
such  things,  only  I  thank  God  that  He  let  me 
do  it. 

'*  The  rain  was  drivin'  over  the  bog,  just  as  it 
is  to-day,  but  'twas  night-time,  an'  the  wind  howled 
on  the  face  of  the  hill.  There  was  no  light  in  the 
room  here  but  the  glow  of  the  turf,  an'  all  at  once 
that  was  dimmed  with  the  cloud  o'  grey  ashes  that 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  121 

swirled   up   from    the    hearth.     'Lord    save   you, 
whoever  you  are,  and  out  of  such  a  night,'  says  I. 

*  Close  the  door,  you  omadhawn,  unless  you  want 
to  send  me  clean  and  clever  up  the  chimney.' 

"  Then  when  the  ashes  fell  I  saw  it  was  Dan 
Lee  I  had,  the  lad  from  over  the  way. 

"  *  Well,  Dan,'  says  I,  '  and  what's  brought  you 
out  this  night?' 

"  *  May  I  sit  by  the  fire,   Maureen  ? '  says  he. 

*  I'm  off  to  America  in  the  morning.' 

**  I  never  heard  that  voice  on  him  before,  but 
many's  the  time  I  told  Mark,  aye,  and  Mary  too, 
that  they  were  too  hard  on  the  lad,  and  he  their 
only  one,  and  now,  be  token,  they'd  learnt  it  for 
themselves. 

"  *  That's  sudden,'  says  I,  quiet-like,  for  I  seen 
that  'twas  more  nor  talkin'  that  would  be  needed 
to  check  him  now.  '  An'  why  isn't  it  beyond 
you  are,  the  last  night  maybe  ever  you'll  see 
the  old  folk?' 

" '  I've  broke  with  them,  and  that's  the  truth,' 


122         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

he  lets  out.  '  You  may  quit  your  talkin',  for  I've 
me  mind  made  up.  I'm  goin'  to  America,  an' 
you'll  waste  your  time  if  you  go  chatting  to  me, 
Maureen.  You'd  do  better  to  be  sayin'  your 
prayers,'  an'  he  took  up  the  prayer-book  that 
lay  on  the  ledge  of  the  hearth  and  commenced 
turning  over  the  pages. 

"  '  Is  it  reading  this  you  be  at  night  ? '  he 
says,  showing  that  'twas  not  of  himself  he  was 
going  to  speak.  And  humouring  him,  God  gave 
me  the  great  thought. 

"  *  Times  I  do,'  says  I,  '  and  more  times  'tis 
in  the  fire  I  do  be  reading.' 

"Lord  forgive  me  that  same,  though  true 
enough,  many's  the  picture  I've  watched  fallin' 
to  ashes  in  the  red  o'  the  turf. 

"  It  caught  his  fancy.  Well  I  guessed  it  would, 
an'  he  asked  me  to  read  what  I  saw  there  then. 

"'You  must  pass  your  word,'  says  I,  *that 
you'll  not  speak  till  I'm  done,  that  you'll  hear 
me  to  the  end.' 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  US 

"  '  Ah,  then,'  says  he,  '  I'll  hsten.' 

"  '  On  your  faith,'  says  I. 

"  '  Ay,'  says  he. 

" '  I  see  a  big  city,'  says  I,  '  with  folk  hurryin' 
up  an'  down,  an'  all  busy  wid  their  own  concerns. 
I  see  a  lad  walkin'  amongst  them.  He  is  alone. 
No  one  cares  what  he  is  about,  or  what  comes 
to  him.  There  are  miles  and  miles  of  streets  in 
the  city,  an'  more  folk  live  in  it  than  you  nor  me 
have  ever  seen ;  yet  there's  not  a  soul  to  bid  the 
lad  the  time  o'  day,  or  to  care  if  he's  cold  or  ill, 
if  he's  starving  or  dying. 

" '  Now  I  see  some  folk  beginnin'  to  look  at 
him,  but  they  all  have  bad  faces,  wicked  bad 
faces.  The  good  folk  pass  him  by,  because  there 
are  little  devils  sittin'  on  his  shoulders,  an'  they 
drive  everybody  from  him  that  hasn't  got  other 
devils  on  their  shoulders  too.  There's  the  devil 
of  disobedience  has  a  seat  close  to  the  collar  of 
the  lad's  coat,  and  near  by  is  the  devil  of  dis- 
respect to  parents.' 


124         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"  I    saw  Dan  look   up  as  if    he  was  going   to 
speak,  and  I  minded  him  of  his  promise. 

" '  There's  obstination,  too,'  says  I,  '  and  ill- 
temper,  and  pride,  and  others  quite  at  home, 
and  they  keep  calling  to  their  friends  on  the 
other  folks  backs.  Drunkenness  and  idleness,  and 
gambling,  steahng,  and  all  badness  come  round 
the  lad ;  but  when  honest  men  look  at  him,  his 
devils  pull  him  away  from  them.  I  see  this 
goin'  on,  only  the  coat  where  the  devils  is  sittin' 
is  growing  shabbier.  It's  wearin'  into  holes,  but 
there  is  so  many  devils  on  it  now  that  I  can't 
say  is  it  the  same  coat  at  all  or  not.  But  now 
the  figure  of  the  lad  is  fading,  and  I  see  nothing 
but  the  flames,  burnin',  burnin'  all  before  them, 
except  the  little  devils,  an'  them  dancin'  for  joy 
in  the  heart  of  them,  for  haven't  they  got  more 
fuel  for  the  fire  of  hell?' 

"  I  looked  up  at  Dan,  but  his  head  was  down 
on  his  breast,  and  never  a  bit  of  his  face  could 
I  see. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  1^5 

"  *  Here's  another  picture,'  says  I,  and  I  stirs 
the  turf,  'it's  in  another  country,  it's  nearer 
home.  I  see  a  house,  a  lonely  house.  There's 
not  a  one  in  it  but  an  old  woman,  with  white 
hair  on  her  and  a  sad,  patient  face.  It  is  a  poor 
place,  want  and  misery  show  out  upon  its  walls. 
A  cup  of  black  tea  stands  on  the  hearth,  there 
is  no  milk,  for  the  cow  was  sold  long  ago.  A 
crust  of  bread  is  on  the  table,  but  the  old 
woman  only  looks  at  it  with  hungry  eyes ;  it  is 
the  last  thing  to  eat  left  in  the  house,  and 
maybe  some  one  is  coming  who  will  want  it  more 
than  she.  After  a  while  an  old  man  comes  in, 
he  is  bowed  and  bent  and  terrible  thin.  He 
eats  the  bit  of  bread  and  drinks  down  the  black 
tea.  I  see  him  lay  his  hand  on  the  old  woman's 
shoulder  and  speak  to  her,  and  oh,  the  sad 
sight !  the  tears  are  falling  down  his  cheeks.  I 
see  a  gombeen  man  come  in,  he  pokes  around 
and  tosses  the  bits  of  furniture  about ;  they  are 
poor   things   in    his   eyes,   but    they   are   the   old 


126         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

mother's  treasures.  I  see  the  old  father  and 
mother  alone  again  in  the  bare  kitchen,  but  far 
away  in  the  distance,  I  see  the  poor  man's  van 
coming  to  carry  them  off  to  the  Union.  I  see 
them  look  around  to  choose  what  little  thing  they 
can  take  away  with  them  to  the  miserable  place 
they  are  going  to.  The  old  woman  goes  to  a 
cupboard  and  takes  out  a  bundle  of  clothes. 
Her  own  ?  The  old  man's  ?  No,  just  the  outfit 
of  a  gossoon  before  they  put  him  into  suits. 
There  is  a  pair  of  socks  amongst  them,  a  pair 
of  baby's  socks.  The  old  man  is  lookin'  over 
her  shoulder,  an'  his  face  is  drawn  an'  grey. 
She  lays  one  sock  in  the  hand  that  he  puts 
out  to  her.  Is  the  boy  that  used  to  wear 
that  sock  dead  an'  gone  ?  Surely  he  must 
be,  or  his  parents  would  never  be  in  such 
straits. 

" '  The  sound  of  wheels  is  heard  outside,  and 
the  old  father  slips  the  baby  sock  into  the 
breast  of  his  poor  coat.     Oh !    I  can  almost  hear 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  127 

the  words  he  mutters,  "  God  forgive  me,  me 
share  in  what  is  past." 

"  *  But  the  other  sock  ?  It  is  in  the  mother's 
keepin'.  It  is  pressed  to  her  Hps.  It  is  wet 
with  her  tears.  Their  home  is  taken  from  them. 
They  have  hved  in  poverty  and  hardship.  They 
are  too  old  to  work,  and  they  are  alone.  Every- 
thing is  gone  from  them,  everything  only  the 
two  baby  socks  that  were  worn  long  ago  by 
the  son  who  has  deserted  them. 

"  '  The  sound  of  wheels  comes  nearer.  Trem- 
bhng,  heart-broken,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  with 
the  baby  socks  restin'  on  their  hearts,  they 
totter  across  the  threshold ' 

"  But  then  young  Dan  would  hear  no  more. 
'No  no,  no,'  an'  I  saw  the  hot  tears  drop 
down  upon  his  knees,  'Never  that,  never  that, 
God  forgive  me.' 

"  The  storm  was  past.  There  was  no  rain 
now,  an'  the  moon  came  in  through  the  window 
an'   fell    across    the    floor.      He'd    forgotten    me, 


128         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

had  Dan,  but,  thank  God,  he'd  forgotten  his  plan 
for  travelUn'  too. 

" '  You'll  get  home  before  they've  shut  up  for 
the  night,  Dan,'  says  I. 

"*I  will,  Maureen,  God  helpin'  me,'  says  he. 

"  I  watched  him  till  he  was  swallowed  up  in 
the  shadow  of  his  own  house  beyont.  But  you'll 
hold  your  whist  on  what  I'm  after  telHn'  you, 
daughter,  for  no  one  knows  why  he  went  back 
to  them,  no  one,  only  God  an'  him  an'  me,  a 
lone  old  woman." 

Patricia. 


X 

My  dear  Joan, — I  cannot   undertake  to  answer 

your    question     as     to     where     faith     ends    and 

superstition  begins,  but  one  thing  I   can   say  is, 

that   if   you    had    ever   visited    the    Holy    Island 

in    Lough    Derg    you   would   not   speak    of    the 

superstition  attached   to   the   performance  of  the 

pilgrimage. 

The    anxiety    that    each    exercise    should    be 

carried    out    exactly   as    custom    prescribes    may 

be  petty,  it  may  be  prompted  by  a  superstitious 

fear,    yet    I    think   that    the    Paters,    Aves,    and 

Credos  that  rise  from  the  hearts  as  well  as  from 

the  lips  of  those  who  fidget  over  the  exact  spot 

on  which   to   kneel   whilst   saying   these  prayers, 

are,  nevertheless,  pleasing  to  God. 

129  I 


130         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

You  know,  of  course,  that  Saint  Patrick  him- 
self started  the  pilgrimage.  He  went  to  the 
island  on  Lough  Derg  to  pray  in  solitude,  and 
whilst  there  he  saw  a  vision  of  Purgatory  so 
awful  that  for  nine  days  and  nine  nights  he 
stayed  praying  and  fasting  so  as  to  avert  such 
suffering  from  himself.  Here,  too,  following  their 
master's  example,  came  his  disciples.  Thus  came 
Saint  Bridget  and  Saint  Brendan,  Saint  Columba 
and  Saint  Malachi,  Saint  Dabhroc  and  Saint 
Catherine.  How  many  others  came  in  those 
old  days  of  fervent  Christianity  even  tradition 
does  not  pretend  to  relate,  but  that  those  I 
have  named  to  you  performed  the  pilgrimage 
is  testified  to  by  the  six  crosses  that  have  been 
put  up  in  their  names  and  walled  round  with 
rough  stones,  and  that  still  mark  the  ''  beds  "  or 
resting-places  of  these  saints. 

For  fifteen  centuries  thousands  and  thousands 
of  pilgrims  have,  bareheaded  and  barefooted, 
followed  St  Patrick's  example.     In  the  last  fifty 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  131 

years  a  careful  record  proves  that  from  one  to 
three  thousand  people  have  visited  the  island 
annually.  There  is  Papal  authority  as  well 
as  this  undoubted  precedent  for  undertaking  the 
pilgrimage,  and  if  some  amongst  the  thousands 
who  do  it  are  superstitious,  I  think  it  may  be 
forgiven  them  in  consideration  of  the  real 
prayers  and  real  penances  that  they  perform. 
For  ten  weeks  every  summer  the  two  churches 
— poor  little  damp-stained  buildings — and  the 
equally  bare  and  almost  equally  damp  hospice, 
large  enough  to  hold  over  a  hundred  people, 
are  open  to  the  public.  No  one  may  stay  on 
the  island  unless  he  is  willing  to  carry  out  the 
regulations  of  the  pilgrimage,  but  to  suit  the 
rapidity — and  perhaps  the  constitutions — of  to-day, 
the  time  of  penance  has  been  lessened  to  three 
days  and  two  nights  only. 

The  routine  of  these  days  varies  but  little. 
There  is  Mass  at  five  in  the  morning  and  a 
sermon.     Imagine    eighty    or    ninety  people,    all 


132  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

barefooted,  and  with  a  larger  percentage  of  men 
than  of  women,  in  a  small,  low,  cruciform  chapel, 
where  there  are  benches  for  about  twenty,  the 
others  kneeling  upon  the  mud  floor  with  faces 
upturned  to  the  altar,  no  one  appearing  at  his 
or  her  best  in  the  chill  grey  of  sunbreak,  and 
some  who  have  spent  the  whole  night  in  the 
chapel,  looking  quite  the  reverse  of  attractive. 
But  no  one  cares.  The  world,  for  most  of  the 
pilgrims  during  those  three  days,  is  just  that 
island,  their  own  soul,  and  God.  And  those  who 
feel  differently  are  ashamed. 

After  the  second  Mass,  said  in  the  other 
chapel,  which  later  in  the  day  is  given  up  to 
hearing  confessions,  the  "  rounds "  begin.  These 
consist  of  a  visit  to  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  a 
renewal  of  baptismal  promises,  and  a  number  of 
Paters,  Aves,  Glorias,  and  Credos,  some  of  which 
are  recited  whilst  walking  round  the  church  and 
round  the  six  crosses  that  dot  the  island,  others 
whilst  kneeling  or  standing  in  prescribed  places. 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE    WAND         133 

All  this,  you  remember,  is  done  barefooted, 
and  the  island  is  neither  smooth  nor  grassy. 
Consequently  one  "round"  takes  an  hour  and 
a  half  to  perform,  and  nine  rounds  constitute 
that  part  of  the  pilgrimage.  At  mid-day  public 
prayers  are  said  and  there  is  another  sermon, 
or  rather  instruction.  At  six  Benediction  is 
given,  and  at  nine  every  one  makes  the  stations 
of  the  cross,  and  says  night  prayers  in  the 
chapel. 

The  penances  are,  first  and  easiest,  dispensing 
with  any  kind  of  footgear  or  headgear  for  three 
days.  Second,  eating  only  once  a  day,  at  about 
one  o'clock,  as  much  oatcake  washed  down  by 
lake  water  or  black  tea,  as  possible.  Thirdly, 
spending  one  of  the  two  nights  in  the  chapel, 
praying  if  you  can,  and  if  not,  doing  your  best 
to  keep  awake,  and  follow  the  prayers  that  your 
more  pious  companions  say  unceasingly,  and 
mostly  aloud,  from  ten  in  the  evening  until  five 
in   the  morning. 


134         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

On  the  third  day  you  go  home,  footsore,  very 
hungry,  but  quite  uninjured  by  three  days  of  such 
fasting  as  elsewhere  would  be  utterly  impossible. 

And  you  never  speak  again  of  the  superstition 
of  Saint  Patrick's  Purgatory. 

Driving  from  Pettigo  to  Lough  Derg  we 
shared  our  car  with  a  fellow  pilgrim,  a  cattle- 
dealer,  who  immediately  took  us  under  his 
protection,  and  in  the  boat,  after  securing  the 
best  seats  for  us,  began  to  tell  us  various 
things  about  the  pilgrimage.  As  we  knew  most 
of  them  before,  our  attention  strayed  away  to  an 
old  woman,  who,  seated  in  the  bows,  was  sobbing 
quietly  under  her  shawl. 

"  You're  looking  at  that  one,"  our  protector 
observed.  "  She's  in  trouble,  the  creature,  but 
it's  to  the  right  place  she's  goin'  to  get  shut  of 
it.  Is  it  what's  on  her  you're  askin'  ?  God 
Almighty  knows.  Sure,  haven't  we  all  our 
troubles  ?  Amn't  1  after  losing  a  fine  cow 
meself,  ere  yesterday  (the  day  before  yesterday)  ? " 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  135 

In  duty  bound  we  enquired  the  deceased 
animal's  complaint. 

"Not  a  sickness  was  there  on  her,"  was  the 
reply.  "  I  couldn't  say  what  took  her,  was  it 
solid  contrariness  or  the  will  o'  God." 

Another  boat  was  overtaking  us,  and,  catching 
sight  of  one  of  its  occupants,  our  companion  passed 
to  a  different  subject. 

"  There's  Dan  Casey  !  "  he  ejaculated,  "  and 
the  young  wife  of  him,  no  less.  Well,  now, 
be  this  and  be  that,  it's  himself  has  horrid 
taste." 

Mrs  Casey,  evidently  a  newly-made  bride, 
might  have  been  somewhat  hurt  at  such  out- 
spoken criticism  had  she  not  known  that  the 
adjective  "  horrid "  is  the  English  rendering  of 
a  Gaelic  word  meaning  superlatively  fine  or 
wonderful.  If  you  ever  go  out  night-fishing 
with  Andy  Rooney,  when  the  stars  are  bright, 
ask  him  his  opinion  of  the  sky,  and,  if  I  mistake 
not,    he    will   bare   his    head    and   say,    "Praises 


136         THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

be!    and     isn't     it     the    works     of    God     that's 
horrid  ? " 

But  if  Mr  Casey's  taste  had  been  horrid  in 
its  GaeUc  meaning,  it  struck  us  that  the  word 
miglit  have  been  apphed  in  its  Enghsh  sense 
to  the  taste  of  his  bride.  He  was  a  big  man, 
red-headed,  with  scant  red  beard,  and  a  prominent 
nose  that  once  had  been  scarlet,  but  that  had 
now  faded  to  the  hue  of  a  dying  cabbage  rose. 

"  D'you  see  Dan  Casey,  there  ? "  our  talkative 
friend  went  on.  "  Before  ever  he  began  coming 
to  the  Purgatory  there  wasn't  a  better  -  looking 
blackguard  from  Enniskillen  to  the  town  of 
Clones  than  himself."  ( AngUce :  No  one  in  that 
*  country  looked  to  be  a  better,  or  rather  greater 
blackguard  than   he.)     "You  may  have  heard  of 

the  row  in "  he  mentioned  a  case  that  had 

excited  some  newspaper  comment  a  few  years 
ago.  "  Well,  Casey  was  in  it,  hand  and  neck, 
an'  when  he  got  out,  off  he  comes  to  the  island, 
and  on  his  two  knees  before  the  prior,  he  takes 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  137 

the  pledge  for  life,  and  many  another  promise. 
And  he  kept  them  too,  God  help  him,  and  he 
got  the  business  together  again.  Then  last 
month  he  fetched  home  that  lassie,  out  of 
Tintona,  and  I'm  proud  to  see  the  two  of  them 
in  the  holy  place,  where  God  Almighty  gave 
him  strength  to  break  with  the  drink." 

We  asked  how  often  the  speaker  himself  had 
made  the  Purgatory. 

"  Seven  -  and  -  twenty  years,  I'm  coming,"  he 
said  simply,  "  and  me  father  before  me,  and  the 
lads  at  home,  please  God,  they'll  be  coming 
when  I  get  back." 

In  the  grey  light  of  early  morning  we  saw 
all  our  fellow  pilgrims  gathered  together.  There 
were  about  fifty  men,  none  looking  very  poor, 
some  quite  wxll  -  to  -  do.  The  women  were 
more  mixed,  a  few  young  ones  who  might  have 
been  school  teachers, .  or  shop  assistants ;  some 
real  "voteens"  of  a  type  well  known  to  all 
Irish     churchgoers ;      some     prosperous     middle- 


138         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

aged  matrons,  as  well  as  a  few  poor  old  women, 
to  whom  bare  feet  were  no  novelty,  and  a  meal 
of  oatcake  no  unwonted  hardship.  But  to  all, 
these  three  days'  prayer,  in  spite  of  the  penances, 
come  as  a  yearly  rest,  and  I  think  it  gives  them 
strength  to  struggle  on  through  the  hardships  of 
their  lives  for  another  twelve  months. 

The  men  looked  much  more  peculiar  than 
the  women,  with  their  tidy  clothes  and  bare 
feet,  and  though  the  faces  of  several  proclaimed 
that,  like  Mr  Casey,  they  came  to  the  island  to 
ask  God's  help  to  take  or  keep  the  pledge,  there 
were  many  others  whose  motives  for  coming 
were  not  to  be  guessed  so  easily. 

Our  friend  of  the  boat,  in  an  interval  between 
two  stations,  presented  one  young  man  to  us  as 
"  commg  as  far  as  you  ladies  do  yourselves,  all  the 
way  from  Dublin."  He  was  quite  young,  and 
might  have  been  a  shop-keeper  or  a  Christian 
brother  in  secular  clothes.  We  spoke  to  him  in 
the   low   tone   in   which    all   conversation   on  the 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  139 

island  is  carried  on  for  fear  of  disturbing  those  who 
were  praying,  and  very  simply  he  told  us  his  story. 

As  a  boy  he  had  wished  to  be  a  priest,  a  friar, 
but  whilst  he  was  still  at  a  Seraphic  school,  his 
father  died,  leaving  a  number  of  children.  They 
would  have  kept  him  at  the  Friary,  and  people 
proposed  to  send  some  of  the  younger  ones  to 
an  orphanage,  but  his  uncle  offered  him  work 
in  his  public-house  with  a  salary  that  would  allow 
his  mother  to  keep  his  family  undivided. 

*'  It  was  then  I  came  here  first,"  he  said,  "  to 
find  out  God's  will,  and  though  it  nearly  broke 
my  heart  to  give  up  the  schooling,  I  felt  it  was 
to  my  uncle  that  I  must  go.  I  come  back  every 
summer,  and  I  thank  God  for  the  work  He  sends 
me  to  do  for  Him.  There's  plenty  to  be  done  for 
Him  in  a  public-house  as  well  as  in  a  church,  and 
maybe  I  serve  Him  better  behind  a  spirit  bar  than 
ever  I  would  have  served  Him  in  a  pulpit." 

Two  of  the  women  also  spoke  to  us.  One 
was  she  who  had  been   weeping  in   the   boat. 


140         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"  May  you  never  know  sorrow,  acushla,"  she  said 
as  I  helped  her  from  her  knees  on  the  lake  shore ; 
and  then,  being  questioned,  she  told  us  the  reason 
of  her  tears.  For  seventeen  years  she  and  her 
"man"  had  made  the  pilgrimage  to  the  island 
together,  but  in  the  winter  she  had  buried  him,  away 
over  the  hills,  and  for  the  first  time  now  she  came 
alone  to  the  island.  I  muttered  something  about 
being  lonely,  but  she,  misunderstanding,  turned 
almost  angrily  upon  me.  "  Lonely  is  it  ?  Why 
would  he  be  lonely?"  she  cried.  "Isn't  it  to 
the  poor  man's  Best  Friend  he's  gone  ? " 

The  other  old  woman  also  had  her  trouble, 
and  her  story  was  pathetic.  She  came  from  the 
coast  where  there  are  periodic  epidemics  of  fever. 
One  day  the  child  of  a  neighbour,  "a  widow 
woman  like  meself,"  died,  and  there  was  no  one 
to  dig  the  grave.  "  Not  one  at  all,  till  my 
Mickeen  went  to  do  it,  and  the  mother  was  that 
distracted  that  it  was  my  boy's  two  hands  that 
laid  little  Katie  in  the.  coffin  that  he'd  made  for 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  141 

her.     Then  he  came  home  to  me,  and  death  was 
written  between  his  two  eyes. 

**  *  Granny,'  says  he,  *  I've  loved  you  better  nor 
me  own  head  and  I've  got  to  go  from  you.'  And 
he  cried — God  bless  him  for  the  best  boy  in 
Ireland — he  cried  because  he  was  leaving  his  old 
granny,  and  he  not  four-and-twenty  years  of  age. 
'Twas  a  week  and  no  more,  the  day  for  the  day, 
that  he  buried  little  Katie,  when  they  carried  him 
out  himself,  on  the  sticks.  You  can  fancy  the 
fine  boy  he  was,  daughter,  when  'twas  seven  feet 
planks  they  had  to  put  to  his  coffin." 

There  was  no  repining.  It  was  God's  will 
that  in  her  old  age  Mickeen's  grandmother  should 
be  "thrown  on  the  rates."  If  Saint  Patrick's 
Purgatory  is  superstitution,  then  this  is  either 
apathy  or  philosophy;  but  if  one  is  faith,  so  I 
think  is  the  other,  or  rather  is  it  the  resignation 
that  comes  from  faith. 

After  leaving  the  island  we  made  a  tour  through 
the  highlands  of  Donegal.    If  the  reforms  suggested 


142         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

by  the  authoress  of  the  American  letters  to  hotel- 
keepers  and  others  were  carried  out,  that  tour 
would  certainly  have  been  more  comfortable. 
Still  it  did  console  us  a  little  to  remember  that 
if  the  domestic  economy  of  other  nations  is  more 
perfect  than  our  own,  we,  and  no  others,  have 
the  faith  that  keeps  aUve  the  pilgrimage  of  Saint 
Patrick's  Purgatory. 

What  do  you  think? 

Your  loving 

Patricia. 


XI 

My    dear    Joan,  —  I     quite     agree     with     you 

that   it   is   disgraceful   for   a   strong,   able-bodied 

woman  like  Maria  Hegarty  to  beg.     And  she  is 

an  inveterate,  hopeless  beggar,  as  her  mother,  and 

probably  her  grandmother,  were  before  her.     She 

is  altogether  unattractive  too,  and  yet  she  is  not 

wholely  bad.     Once,  years  ago,  when  Maria  was 

only  a  girl,  she  agreed  to  try  and  work,  and  so 

we  sent  her  to  the  Sisters  of  Charity's  Laundry, 

but,  as   you  may  imagine,  her  sojourn  there  was 

of  short  duration.     1   must  tell  you  the  story  of 

her   last   day  in   the  convent,  as  the  Sisters  told 

it   to   us,  for   it   upholds   my  theory  that   she   is 

not  altogether  bad. 

Sister    JNIary,    tall    and    stately    in    her    grey 
U3 


144  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

gown  and  white  cornette,  stood  at  the  table  in 
the  packing -room  of  the  laundry,  holding  an 
empty  picture  frame  in  her  hand. 

"  Where  is  the  picture  belonging  to  this 
frame?"  she  asked  in  a  clear,  cold  voice. 

Her  audience  was  not  one  that  heeded.  No 
reply  came  from  the  group  of  wild-looking  young 
women,  who  paused  in  their  occupation  of  sorting 
the  clothes  to  listen  to  her  question. 

"  Girls,  I  am  speaking  to  you  all,  and  I 
expect  an  answer.  I  ask  again  where  is  the 
picture  ? " 

A  voice,  half  muffled  yet  with  a  defiant  ring 
in  it,  came  from  amongst  the  workers : 

"In  the  fire." 

There  was  no  surprise  apparent  in  the  Sister 
of  Charity's  even  tones. 

"Who  threw  it  there?" 

Again  the  same  voice  came  in  reply : 

"  I  did." 

Sister    Mary    let    her    glance    wander    slowly 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   AVAND  145 

from  face  to  face  before  she  looked  directly  at 
the  culprit.  Strangely  enough,  there  was  more 
shame  to  be  seen  on  the  other  countenances 
than  on  that. 

"  Maria  Hegarty,  you  can  wait  for  me  at  the 
passage  door  after  time-bell  this  evening." 

No    more   was   said,  and   in   silence   work   was 
resumed. 

The  mistress  had  shown  no  curiosity,  no 
astonishment  nor  even  anger,  when  speaking  to 
the  girls,  but  in  her  heart  she  was  greatly  puzzled 
over  the  occurrence. 

The  girls,  though  their  faults  were  legion, 
had  never  shown  any  disrespect  to  the  statues 
or  pictures  that  were  to  be  found  in  each  room, 
and  this  outbreak  was  apparently  quite  unaccount- 
able. Maria  Hegarty  had  only  been  a  few  weeks 
at  the  convent,  and,  so  far,  she  had  seemed  to  be 
fairly  contented.  The  nuns,  however,  felt  that 
they  were  making  little  or  no  impression  upon 
her,    and   evidently  her  wild,  wilful  temperament 


146         THE   BECKONING    OF  THE   WAND 

was    abeady    chafing    under     the     unaccustomed 
disciphne. 

When  the  time-bell  rang  the  other  girls  filed 
out,  but  Maria,  in  obedience  to  the  Sister's  in- 
junction, waited  under  the  big  clock  in  the 
passage  to  explain  her  conduct. 

"Well,  Maria,"  said  the  nun  seriously  and 
gently,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  why  you  threw 
the  holy  picture  in  the  fire." 

Shamefaced  now,  the  girl  stood  silent  with 
drooping  head. 

"  We  asked  no  questions  when  you  came  to 
us,  Maria,  but  I  can  guess  that  in  your  life  there 
has  been  some  one  you  loved  dearly,  your  mother, 
perhaps,  or  your  father,  or  a  little  brother  or 
sister,  or  some  one  who  was  kind  to  you  when 
you  were  a  child  yourself.  I  think  by  your  face 
it  was  your  mother  whom  you  loved  the  best. 
Well,  what  would  you  say  if  a  person  came  and 
threw  your  mother's  picture  with  words  perhaps 
of  contempt  into  the   fire,  or   tore  it  to  bits  and 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  147 

scattered  it  through  the  mud  of  the  streets? 
That  is  what  you  have  done  to  my  mother,  and 
she  is  your  mother  too,  my  poor  child,  although 
you  know  her  and  her  Divine  Son  so  little. 
Now,  Maria,  what  am  I  to  say  to  you  ?  Will 
you  tell  me  what  made  you  do  it?  You  see 
I  know  something  about  it  already." 

"  They've  split  on  me,  then,"  said  JNIaria 
sullenly,  "  and  more'n  likely  they've  lied  to  you, 
too.  I'm  bad,  real  bad,  but  not  so  bad  as  them, 
for  they  go  shamming  an'  I  don't.  I'd  beat 
the  lot  o'  them  at  language  out  on  the  roads, 
but  what  they  say  when  you're  gone's  not  fit  for 
her" — nodding  towards  another  picture  of  Our 
Lady  that  hung  upon  the  wall  of  the  corridor — 
*'and  her  Little  One  to  hear.  They're  better  in 
the  fire  than  listening  to  such  things,  and  when 
the  others  wouldn't  quit  their  talk,  I  took  an' 
chucked  her  in.  You  can  keep  the  coppers  you 
owe  me  to  buy  a  new  one.  I'm  off."  And  before 
the  nun  had  recovered  from  her  surprise  there  was 


148         THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

a  whisk  in  the  passage,  a  slam  of  the  work  door, 
and  Sister  INIary  had  seen  the  last  of  Maria  Hegarty. 
She  made  her  way  home  after  that.  We 
heard  of  her  return,  although  it  was  a  long 
time  before  we  saw  her  again.  Her  mother 
used  to  come  and  beg  as  regularly  as  before, 
but  Maria  avoided  explanations  by  a  continued 
absence.  We  saw  her  when  her  mother  came  to 
die.  She  had  sent  for  us,  poor  old  soul,  and  we 
went  to  see  her  in  the  wretched  cabin  she  called 
home.  Four  bare  mud  walls,  a  tumbling  roof, 
puddles  in  the  mud  floor  where  the  rain  came 
through  the  thatch,  and  no  furniture  but  a  few 
old  wooden  boxes.  Two  bacon  cases  nailed 
together  and  half  filled  with  rags  did  duty  for 
a  bed,  the  other  boxes  represented  table  and 
chairs.  The  old  woman  was  blind,  or  nearly  so, 
and  death  was  very  near,  but  when  she  heard 
our  voices  she  called  to  JNIaria  to  dust  one  of 
the  boxes  and  to  spread  on  it  the  clean  white 
cloth  that  had  lain  under  her  hands  when,   that 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  149 

morning,  the  priest  had  brought  her  the  last 
Sacraments.  It  was  the  only  clean  thing  in  the 
house,  and  we  must  sit  upon  it. 

Then  she  asked  us  to  be  kind  to  Maria,  to 
continue  to  her  the  weekly  dole  that  the  old 
woman  looked  upon  as  her  right.  We  urged 
that,  late  as  it  was,  the  time  was  not  yet  passed 
when  Maria  might  earn  an  honest  livehhood  for 
herself  instead  of  remaining  a  beggar  for  ever. 

"  She  couldn't  do  it,  the  creature !  She 
couldn't  live  now  without  the  free  air  of  the 
roads  about  her,"  at  last  the  old  woman  con- 
fessed to  the  attraction  of  a  wandering  life. 
"  But  don't  be  too  hard  on  her,  asthore,  for 
didn't  I  breed  and  rear  her  to  it,  God  forgive  me." 

Less  urgently,  we  asked  if  she  did  not  fear 
the  dangers  to  Maria  soul  if  left  alone  to  lead  a 
beggar's  life. 

"Is  it  with  me  feet  already  before  the  Gates  of 
Heaven  you'd  ask  me  to  disbelieve  His  mercy  ? " 
she  cried,  almost  scandalised  at  such  a  suggestion. 


150         THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

"Don't  1    know  that    God  Almighty  won't  leave 
go  what  His  Son  bought  for  Him  so  dear." 

And  so  Maria  succeeded  to  her  mother's 
"beat,"  and  became  a  recognised  institution,  who 
claimed  her  share  of  our  mid -day  meal  with 
unfailing  regularity  once  a  week. 

She  is  now  what  the  people  call  a  "charity 
woman,"  asking  and  receiving  in  God's  name. 
Of  a  different  type  is  JMrs  Lee,  who  came,  I 
remember,  one  day  when  Maria  w^as  having  her 
dinner  on  the  doorstep.  Mrs  Lee  belongs  to  the 
common  tramp  tribe — in  local  parlance,  she  is  a 
tinker.  Being  a  tinker  in  our  part  of  the  world 
does  not  necessarily  imply  any  connection  with 
the  tinsmith's  profession.  It  simply  means  a 
member  of  a  family  who  travel  the  roads  in  a 
donkey  cart,  camping  on  the  roadsides,  asking 
alms  as  a  right,  and  oftener  than  not  appropriating 
what  is  refused  them.  Sometimes  the  tinkers  do 
sell,  make,  and  mend  pots  and  pans,  and  so  forth. 
Occasionally  they  parade  a  knife-grinding  machine 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  151 

or  a  few  broken  umbrellas.  Often  they  '*job  in 
asses,"  coming  up  from  further  west  with  half  a 
dozen  miserable  donkeys,  which  they  sell  or 
exchange,  making  a  little  on  each  deal.  And 
not  infrequently  an  animal  grazing  on  the  roads 
is  hustled  along  with  the  Westerners  and  sold  to 
some  one  miles  away,  before  its  legal  owner  is 
even  aware  of  his  loss.  Tinkers,  therefore,  are  not 
popular  people,  and  I  told  Mrs  Lee  coldly  that 
there  was  nothing  for  her  unless  she  cared  for 
a  piece  of  bread  —  an  offer  which  I  knew,  in 
summer  at  least,  was  sure  to  be  refused.  But 
to-day  she  did  not  heed  my  words,  and  as  I 
spoke  I  saw  that  her  eyes — such  beautiful,  black- 
fringed  eyes  of  grey — were  red  and  swollen  from 
weeping. 

Last  time  she  came  she  had  told  us  proudly 
that  she  always  took  the  children  into  the  Union 
at  Christmas,  so  that  they  should  get  the  treat 
we  intended  for  the  children  resident  there ; 
to-day  her  news  referred  to  one  of  these  children, 


152         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

whose  only  chance  of  a  Christmas   treat  was  in 
the  workhouse. 

One  of  her  Uttle  girls  was  dead.  I  no  longer 
had  a  single  friend  in  all  the  tinker  tribe,  for 
little  Lizzie  Lee  was  dead.  Her  mother  had 
neglected  her.  To  our  way  of  thinking,  she  had 
often  and  often  been  cruel  to  her,  yet  in  her  own 
rough  way  she  had  loved  the  child. 

Coming  out  of  the  country  jail  after  one  of 
her  frequent  visits  there,  she  had  found  Lizzie 
dying — yes,  and  glad  to  die — in  the  workhouse 
infirmary. 

Morally  and  physically  there  was  nothing  of 
the  "  tinker  "  in  the  child.  It  was  from  her  mother 
that  she  got  the  delicately-cut  features — blurred 
now  in  the  elder  woman  —  and  the  strangely 
pathetic  eyes  that  singled  her  out  from  amongst 
her  more  coarsely  made  brothers  and  sisters.  But 
whence  came  the  moral  delicacy  that  made  her 
shrink  with  loathing  from  her  wretched  drunken 
surroundings  no  one  could  imagine. 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE    WAND  153 

Fortunately  for  her,  her  people  were  so  often 
in  the  lock-up,  that  much  of  her  life  had  been 
spent  under  the  care  of  the  nuns  in  the  workhouse 
school.  It  was  here  that  we  first  made  friends, 
Lizzie  and  I,  and  when  December  came  round 
we  sent  her  a  doll — only  a  rag  -  filled  nigger, 
dressed  in  gaudy  cretonne — the  one  single  gift 
that  Christmas  had  ever  brought  her. 

Soon  after  we  went  to  see  her,  but  her  place 
was  empty  in  the  schoolroom,  and,  crossing  the 
damp,  grey  yard,  we  entered  one  of  the  infirmary 
wards.  There,  on  one  pillow  we  saw  two  heads. 
One  face  was  white,  and  now^  so  wee  and  wan 
that  at  first  we  hardly  recognised  our  little  fiiend ; 
the  other  was  black,  inanimate,  hideous,  yet  worn 
with  kisses,  the  face  of  the  nigger  doll. 

Sister  had  given  Lizzie  her  present  on  Christmas 
morning,  and  at  dinner-time  she  had  found  the 
child  lying  with  her  "baby"  in  her  arms,  and 
her  meal — a  degree  less  unappetising  than  usual 
workhouse  fare — untasted  before  her. 


154         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

"Put    away    that    doll,    Lizzie,    and    eat    your 
dinner,  like  a  good  child,"  she  was  admonished. 

But  the  doll  was  only  clasped  the  closer. 

"  I  don't  want  me  dinner.  Sister,  I  don't 
want  no  dinner,  not  any  more,"  the  child  said. 

'*No  dinner,  but  you'll  die  if  you  eat  no 
dinner,"  said  the  nun. 

Lizzie  looked  up  at  her  with  wide  innocent, 
eyes. 

"  I  want  to  die,"  she  said. 

And  further  questionings  brought  her  reasons 
to  light.  Her  sister,  who  had  come  in  presumably 
for  the  Christmas  treat,  had  been  up  to  see  her, 
and  had  told  her  as  a  cheering  piece  of  news  that 
"  our  folk's  time  would  soon  be  up  in  jail,"  and 
that  they  would  come  before  long  and  take  them 
all  out  to  the  old  life  of  want,  cold,  hunger,  and 
beatings,  and  yet  of  freedom,  and  therefore  loved. 

"  I  couldn't  go  travelling  again.  Sister,"  Lizzie 
explained ;  '*  you  know  what  they're  like,  them 
folk  " — that  is  her  grandfather,  father,  and  mother 


THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND  155 

— "and  I  couldn't  take  the  child  out  to  them," 
hugging  the  nigger  closer  still.  "  But  you  told 
me  that  Jesus  is  kind  to  little  children,  so  I'll 
die  an'  go  to  Heaven,  and  I'll  bring  the  child 
along  with  me,  and  Jesus  will  be  good  to  us." 

That  was  some  months  ago,  and  now  she  had 
had  her  wish.  She  has  never  gone  out  on  the 
tramp  again.  Jesus,  who  is  kind  to  little  children 
had  taken  her  to  Himself,  and  from  the  wretched 
mother's  lips  we  learnt  that  the  child's  last  desire 
was  for  the  doll  to  be  buried  with  her.  The 
Sisters  told  us  afterwards  that  they  had  done  as 
Lizzie  asked.  The  black  doll  was  laid  beside  her, 
and  has  crumbled  to  dust  in  a  little  pauper  grave. 
— Good-bye,  dear  Joan, 

Patricia. 


XII 

My  dear  Joan, — I  have  again  looked  through 
your  vade-mecum,  the  American  letters,  and  at 
every  fresh  truth  that  I  find  in  its  pages  my 
hopes  of  rousing  your  toleration  grow  weaker. 
There  is  not  a  fault  of  commission  or  omission 
described  by  the  authoress  that  might  not  have 
been  drawn  from  life,  from  one,  two,  half  a 
dozen  of  my  acquaintances.  But  to  me  the  dual 
nature   of  the   Celt   is    such   easy  reading  that  I 

still  repeat 

" — A  piteous  land, 
Yet  ever  beckoning  with  enchanted  wand." 

Piteous  !    at  times  almost  hopeless — yet  more  than 

beckoning,  drawing  forcibly  as  a  magnet,  with  her 

enchanted  wand. 

I  understand  that  you  cannot  feel  this  curious 

156 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  157 

fascination.  It  is  as  subtle  as  the  distinction 
between  our  virtues  and  our  failings.  It  is  one  of 
the  invisible  things  that  are  stronger  than  steel, 
yet  being  unseen  are  inexplicable.  At  times  we 
ourselves  lose  sight  of  it,  but  such  little  things, 
that  by  many  pass  unnoticed,  serve  to  bring  it 
back.  Do  you  remember  the  day,  soon  after  you 
went  to  live  at  Ballynaraggit  that  we  took  shelter 
from  a  storm  at  Martin  Concannon's  ?  He  bade 
the  farm  girl  fetch  chairs  for  us  from  the  inner 
room,  bade  her  dust  and  set  them  near  the  fire, 
and,  speaking  first  to  me,  he  gave  me  greeting. 

"  Your  honor  is  heartily  welcome,"  he  said. 

It  was  your  turn  next. 

"  Ma'am,  your  husband's  wife  is  welcome." 

But  to  the  stranger  who  was  with  us  : 

"  Miss,  take  a  seat." 

Perhaps  you  did  not  notice ;  it  was  all  so 
courteously  done,  but  to  me  those  delicate  grades 
of  welcome  brought  the  glamour  before  my 
eyes  that  made  me  lenient  to  the  muddy  ducks 


158         THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

waddling  across  the  kitchen  floor,  to  the  heap  of 
turnips  that  ought  to  have  been  cleaned  and 
chopped  outside,  even  to  the  all  pervading  smell 
of  cabbage  rising  insistently  from  the  great  black 
pot  upon  the  fire. 

I  understand  that  besides  disliking  your 
surroundings  for  what  they  are,  you  dislike  them 
still  more  because  of  what  they  are  not.  The 
greyness,  the  dampness,  the  rank  growth  in 
summer  all  revolt  your  orderly  soul,  you  yearn 
for  the  warm  red  soil,  the  picturesque  villages, 
for  the  very  things  that  overcome  me  when  I  am 
in  England,  and  make  me  long  for  a  glimpse  of 
human  nature  as  seen  round  Ballynaraggit.  I 
understand  how  you  miss  the  beautiful  little 
Gothic  church,  so  spotlessly  kept,  with  vestments, 
services  and  all  so  correctly  carried  out.  In  it 
one  feels,  when  the  vibrations  of  the  organ  send 
the  incense  down  in.  clouds  from  amongst  the 
carvings  of  the  roof  and  a  hush  of  reverence — is 
it  mingled  with   respectability  ? — hangs   over   the 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  159 

congregation,  that  one  really  is  in  church.  I  do 
not  think  you  will  ever  feel  at  home  in  the  bare 
barn-like  chapel  at  Ballynaraggit,  where  the  floor 
bears  traces  of  Sunday's  mud  from  INIonday  until 
Friday,  where  the  sunlight  straggles  in  through 
coloured  glass  that  sets  one's  teeth  on  edge  to  look 
at,  where  the  smell  of  damp  turf  smoke  pervades 
the  air ;  and  the  want  of  a  High  ]Mass,  the  ill-sung 
Benediction,  is  not  made  up  to  you  by  the  real 
eloquence  of  the  sermons.  Yet  do  you  never 
feel  when  your  own  efforts  at  praying  are  very 
feeble — if  ever  they  are  ! — that  there  is  comfort  in 
the  heartfelt  devotion  that  some  of  the  congrega- 
tion round  you  feel,  and  do  not  keep  to  themselves  ? 
Does  Mary  "  the  monk "  still  crouch  in  her  old 
place  beside  the  confessional  and  pour  forth  in  a 
mixture  of  Gaelic  and  English  her  litanies  of  praise 
and  prayer  ? 

I  have  knelt  and  listened  to  her,  marvelling 
at  the  fervent  flow,  but  best  of  all  I  like  the  prayer, 
extempore  yet  stereotyped  from  weekly  repetition, 


160  THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND 

with   which,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  she  concludes 
her  devotions. 

"  Oh  Sacred  Heart  of  me  Jesus,  hear  me, 
"Oh  Sacred  Heart  of  me  Jesus,  help  me, 
"  Oh    Sacred   Heart   of  me   Jesus,   smite   me, 
strike  me,  heal  me, 

"  Oh  Sacred  Heart  of  me  Jesus,  grant  me 
never  to  pass  out  of  the  world  without  th' 
assistance   of  me   holy   clergy." 

Do  you  know,  Joan,  that  the  more  I  think  of 
you  the  more  I  pity  you.  Fate  has  obliged  you 
to  make  your  home  in  Ireland,  and  you  would 
like  to  be  in  sympathy  with  your  surroundings, 
but  that  seems  to  be  impossible.  Faults  and 
failings  are  apparent  everywhere  around  you.  As 
French  people  say,  "  EUes  vous  sautent  aux  yeux," 
and  where  are  the  virtues,  the  attractions  that 
might  counterbalance  some  of  them  ?  I  do  not 
wonder  that  in  Eastern  Ireland,  at  least,  they  are 
invisible  to  so  many.  That  they  do  exist  I 
maintain,    in    spite    of    all,    but    a    cloak    of   the 


THE   BECKONING    OF   THE   WAND  161 

commonest  English  gentility,  made  doubly  offensive 
by  the  ignorance  it  seeks  to  hide,  or  the  more 
aggressive  mantle  of  American  independence,  often 
covers  them  effectually  from  the  casual  observer's 
eye,  and  it  needs  some  special  occasion  to  bring 
them  to  light,  even  to  those  who  know  of  their 
existence. 

In  the  west  —  in  Donegal,  Connemara,  and 
Kerry — thank  God,  they  are  less  far  to  seek,  but 
even  there  you  find  them  hard  to  recognise 
unless  they  are  pointed  out  to  you. 

I  do  not  blame  you  in  the  least.  If  fate  had 
treated  me  as  it  has  treated  you,  if  I  had  been 
obliged  to  make  my  home  in  a  country  not  my 
own,  I  too  should  have  looked  upon  it  as  a  mis- 
fortune, although,  had  I  been  exiled  to  England, 
I  should  at  least  have  been  able  to  enjoy,  in  an 
intensified  form,  in  a  more  personal  way  than  I 
now  do,  tlie  proud  feeling  of  belonging  to  the 
greatest  country  in  the  world. 

But  you  !     You  have  lost  this,  and  have  gained 


162         THE   BECKONING  OF  THE   WAND 

nothing  in  return.  "  Ireland  a  nation  "  is  to  you 
a  rebellious  cry,  given  voice  to  only  by  the 
vulgar  and  unruly.  I  own  that  in  a  Dublin 
drawing-room,  or  in  a  pasture  field  of  Meath, 
the  Ireland  of  the  poet  is  an  imaginary  thing ; 
but  can  you  never  feel,  putting  the  people  quite 
aside,  that  in  our  stony  Connemara  wilds.,  "  the 
little  black  rose,"  "the  dark  rosaleen"  is  a  real, 
living  motherland? 

As  to  the  people,  I  hope  what  I  have  told 
you  of  them  may  help  to  make  you  a  little  more 
lenient ;  and  before  I  end  I  want  to  tell  you 
one  thing  more.  Do  you  remember  the  Murphy 
family,  who  wxre,  and  are,  the  despair  of  priest, 

and  nuns,  and  landlord  at ?     They  are  the 

only  Irish  family  in  the  whole  of  that  picturesque 
Gloucestershire  village,  and  goodness  know^s  how 
they  got  there.  He  is  hopelessly  idle,  frequently 
unsober.  The  children — there  must  be  a  dozen 
of  them,  I  think — are  the  quickest  in  the  class- 
room, the  most  unruly  and  untidy  out  of  it.     They 


THE   BECKONING   OF  THE   WAND  163 

come  to  Mass  regularly,  wholly  unabashed  in  their 
rags  ;  and  on  Sunday  afternoons  their  mother,  with 
a  perennial  baby  in  her  arms  and  two  or  three 
infants  clinging  to  her  skirts,  may  be  seen  paying 
a  visit  to  the  otherwise  empty  chapel — that  lovely 
little  Gothic  chapel  that  you  love.  The  father 
refuses  to  work  regularly,  to  pay  his  rent  at  all. 
Mrs  Murphy  declines  to  keep  her  house  in  order 
or  her  children  clean,  and  yet  the  clergyman's  wife 
-an  honest  woman,  although  no  lover  either  of 
the  Irish  or  of  Catholicity — says  openly  that,  with 
all  her  faults,  Mrs  Murphy  is  the  only  spiritual- 
minded  woman  in  the  whole  district. 

So  it  is  that  in  unexpected  places  appears  the 
leaven. 

If  it  were  not  there  at  all,  less  would  be 
expected  of  us.  If  our  standard  were  lower  we 
should  fail  less  in  this  world,  but  should  we  rise 
as  high — I  speak  as  a  nation,  as  a  whole — in  the 
next. 

I   wonder   if  you    know   the    context   of    the 


164         THE   BECKONING   OF   THE   WAND 

lines  I  am  so  fond  of  quoting.  They  were 
written  after  reading  a  history  of  Ireland,  and 
although  they  apply  more  to  Ireland  political 
than  to  Ireland  domestic,  and  the  seventh  line 
is  true  from  a  materialistic  point  only,  they  have 
the  feeling  in  them  that  I  have  been  trying  to 
show  to  you,  and  therefore,  though  perhaps  I 
am  presumptuous  in  so  doing,  I  add  them  here 
as  an  envoi  to  my  letters. 

"  Shut  up  the  book.     A  piteous  land, 
Yet  ever  beckoning  with  enchanted  wand, 
Whether  by  fault  or  fate 
Where  all  things  come  too  soon  or  are  too  late, 
Of  fitful  love  and  inextinguishable  hate. 

"  Unhappy,  though  beloved  beyond  the  sea, 
Thy  children  prosper  furthest  from  thy  knee. 
Vainly  at  home  they  spend,  and  oh  !  that  it  should  be. 
In  barren  battle  and  debate 
The  wit,  the  humour  and  the  oratory. 
Genius  enough  to  make  us  great. 
And  more  than  blood  enough  to  make  us  free." 

Patricia. 

THE    END 


'RINTED   AT   THE   EDINBURGH    PRESS,    9  AND    H    YOUNG   STREET. 


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